The Contingent Happenings Affair
by Lihau
Summary: Old habits and UNCLE agents die hard. Third in the series I apparently started, following "The Graveyard Secretary Affair". Modern AU. Slash.
1. Act I: Roadkill

**A/N** : Well, for better or worse, here I am again. Howdy.

As mentioned in the story summary, this is a **sequel** to my other MFU stories ("The Up is Down Affair" and "The Graveyard Secretary Affair") so you might perhaps want to consider starting at the beginning if you haven't already. Then again, perhaps not. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of making your own decisions.

This chapter isn't as heavy on the humor as I'd like, but I thought it was about time I addressed one or two Issues, so Act I introduces a few elements of the plot-to-be along with relationship drama/angst/crap(?). Also, it tries to be funny and hopefully succeeds in that on occasion.

And on that note, have a chapter with a title that references dead animals.

* * *

 **Act I** : Thank you for not bringing roadkill into the house

 _Somewhere in Germany_

"Just tell me what you want!"

 _"Now, let's not get snippy. All I want is what any girl wants: lots of shiny trinkets and plenty of closet space to keep them in."_

"Except in this case your trinkets are illegal goods and your closet is my warehouse."

 _"Yes, that is rather unfortunate for you, isn't it?"_

"Look, lady, I already promised not to call the cops on you and I'll keep to that. Just tell me what would get you to clear out and I'll do that, too."

 _"Very generous of you, but I'm perfectly content with the situation."_

"There must be something you want—and you can't just have your people squatting in there indefinitely."

 _"Hm, you don't think so?"_

"No. Just because I'm not calling in the police doesn't mean someone else won't at some point. Please, I—I'll do anything."

 _"…Anything?"_

* * *

 _New York_

 _Early March_

 _Thursday_

"Any questions?" Illya surveilled the room. "Yes?"

"Where are you from, Mr. Kuryakin?" a brunette in the front row asked, coiling her braided hair around a couple of fingers.

Illya blinked at her. Recalled her as being one of the brighter students, even if he did rather suspect her of not paying much attention to whatever he put on the whiteboard or projection screen. As he himself was known to occasionally zone out on a lecture, however, he forgave the apparent deficit in focus and decided to answer her rather than pretend she'd not said anything at all: "Forgive my lack of concision, Murphy. I meant to ask if you had any questions relevant to your coursework."

She smiled and shook her head, and a quick glance over the sea of other humans did not reveal any additional hands in the air, so he went on, "Very well. As usual, the new homework is due Tuesday. Last week's work has been graded and is on the desk, stacked according to alphabetical order. It was largely satisfactory. If your grade is below twenty out of forty, you may retry and resubmit the assignment a week from today. Avail yourself of my office hours if you require some guidance."

There was some change in the quality of the quiet among the pupils as they glanced around at each other, then a hand went up.

"Yes."

"What are your office hours?" a young man with artificially gray hair asked.

"They are prominently printed on the first page of the syllabus, which is available online in the unfortunate event that you lost the hard copy given you."

"Is our overall level of suckiness increasing?" the gray student pressed. "I mean, why are you mentioning office hours now?"

"You are always welcome to drop by at the appointed times if you are having difficulties. As some of you have consistently been having difficulties yet have not been dropping, a reminder of the opportunity for those individuals to improve their grades seemed in order. The level of…"

Illya waved his hand around a bit, and the student supplied, "Suckiness?"

"…has been consistent and is not yet irreparable. Some improvement in homework grades and a B average on the midterm and final should merit a passing mark for the course. If there are no further questions, please reclaim your homework and leave." He blinked a couple of times. "Ah—and… have a good weekend."

Murphy gathered her things very slowly and rather unsurprisingly ended up being the last one to retrieve her homework from the desk at the front of the room. Once there, she asked, "Is that your girlfriend?"

Illya followed the direction indicated by her thumb and noted April Dancer standing in the doorway. Dancer waved when their eyes met, and Kuryakin sort of half-raised his hand before declaring, "No. That is not. Good day, Murphy."

"Good day," the student echoed with an affectedly proper intonation and a laugh, collecting her homework (thirty-nine out of forty) and heading to the exit, where she paused to whisper something to the redhead in the doorway.

April replied in a voice just loud enough for Illya to hear, "That's not appropriate and he's not looking for a relationship."

As soon as thirty-nine-out-of-forty had left, April came further into the room and took a seat at one of the desks to wait for Illya to shut down the slideshow and gather his lecture materials. Eventually, placing a few folders in his backpack, he asked, "What are you smiling at?"

"I always smile when I come by to escort your ass home."

Illya suppressed a quiet harrumph. He certainly understood the U.N.C.L.E.'s decision to keep him under watch, but, "With this level of attention, I am bound to gain an inflated sense of my own self-importance. And yes, you do always smile, but not this much. Hence I return to my earlier question."

As they proceeded out of the classroom and down the hall, April explained, "I didn't think you were 'The Nice Professor', letting people have a second chance on homework. Last week you assigned, like, a hundred pages of supplemental reading and suggested they spend more time on the next assignment."

Illya released the harrumph. "I am an instructor, not a professor. The supplemental reading covered the material that several students seemed to struggle with, which I should think counts as helpful, even if it does not fit your definition of 'nice'."

April chuckled and he continued, "You can attribute the alleged additional niceness to Napoleon. He thought that some of the students might perceive me as intimidating and suggested I make some effort to counter that perception, in order that their learning experience might be a more productive one. Some permissiveness regarding shoddy work seemed an acceptable option."

"Yowza—shoddy, huh?" April glanced to her side, realized her charge had come to a sudden halt a few feet back, and stopped in her tracks.

Illya cocked his head to one side. "Do you find me intimidating?"

"I can count the number of times I see you smile in a day on three fingers, max."

"If you count modulo three—"

"Your wardrobe is at least ninety percent black and gray."

"They are the only colors I can trust without making a huge production of—"

"You have a somewhat unidentifiable European accent and look about ready to punch almost anybody who touches you." She grinned. "No, I don't find you intimidating, but I can understand why other people might."

"Murphy also appears to find me singularly unintimidating, as does the young man who made some inexplicable effort to artificially age himself over this past week."

"Which reminds me: didn't you do any kind of introductory thing at the start of the semester?"

"Of course I did. I said, 'Hello, I am Mr. Kuryakin. The relevant contact information can be found in the syllabus.' As I find the more prolonged introductions of some instructors rather dull, I did not wish to inflict such tedium upon my class."

"Fair point, but you're the type that people might find vaguely interesting: as far as instructors go, you're atypically young and cute and, again, have an unidentifiable accent."

"I shall attempt to sound more German," he declared, taking on the appropriate pronunciation.

"That'll throw 'em off the trail." As Illya quirked a smile, she added, "Hey, there's number one of the day," and realized that he had always been aware of the unidentifiable-accent situation and was somewhat enjoying it. April chuckled. "So are you gonna punk them the whole semester?"

"Define."

"Punk: to trick."

"Yes."

They proceeded to the West 81st Street apartment and, as per their Thursday usual, had lunch there before Illya launched into the weekly apartment-cleaning. April, as always, offered to help but was turned down and they settled into conversation, largely focused around bouncing ideas for their respective school assignments off each other, but with the occasional bit of personal or popular topics slipping in.

"Ever tempted to snoop in his stuff?" April asked as she wandered into Napoleon's bedroom, leaning against the doorway while Illya started dusting. "Not that you should actually snoop, of course, but I'm kinda curious about whether you get curious about stuff like that. You know, wanting to peek in the drawers or anything."

"No. Once a sock was poking out from a drawer, however, so I rectified the situation." He grimaced. "There was some temptation to organize the innards, but I resisted."

"I'm sure Napoleon wouldn't mind."

Illya shot her a doubtful look. "If he prefers to keep it in such disarray, there must be some reason for it."

"Yeah, and the reason is that he's lazy about keeping anything other than himself in good order."

The blond head gave a shake. "No. No, he has been quite proficient in keeping track of and preparing the diet that has been prescribed for me."

"Okay. He's lazy about keeping anything other than himself and anything related to you in good order."

"No. No, that does not make sense. If he is able to be organized in those facets of his life, why can he not keep his socks properly sorted?"

"Probably the same reason he can't manage to make his bed in the morn—huh." April glanced over the bed. The perfectly-made bed. "Mark said Napoleon didn't used to make his bed in the dorm regularly. And when he did make it, it left something to be desired."

Illya waited a moment before replying. "I make the bed I sleep in."

"I'm sure _you_ do but—oh." She grinned at the ears rapidly tinting pink. "Hey, I'm glad it's going well for you guys."

"Not… not quite as 'well' as you may be thinking but… I have found it a—a comfort to have him there."

"Wow. Are we talking literally, or is that an Eastern European euphemism that's just going way over my head?"

"Literally, but not in a literal sense." He glanced over and took in her quizzical expression. "'Literal' referred originally to things that were written, as in 'letters' and such. So we were talking 'literally' in its more common modern usage."

April shook her head. "I guess I should give myself a good solid smack on the wrist. When you started dating Napoleon, I was convinced I'd have to, like, defend your honor or something—and oh my god, I still can't believe you do windows! Please come over and do mine."

"You do not clean windows?" Illya asked over his shoulder, spritzing the glass a few times.

"Not until I can make a smiley face out of the grease on the pane."

"In that case, perhaps we can stop at your residence before coming here on Thursdays."

April gave half a laugh. "Actually, I was joking. But if you're serious, maybe… every other week?"

"That is acceptable. And returning to your earlier comment, I am perfectly capable of defending my… honor."

"I know that now, blondie, but back then all I knew was that Napoleon was a bit of a wolf. I guess it's the promiscuous flirting he needs more than the promiscuous… physical stuff."

The hand wiping down the windowpane slowed a bit. "Pro… miscuous?"

"It means—"

"I am familiar with the definition. I am confused as to the context."

"Well, because he flirts with lots of people."

"Ah." The hand resumed its normal pace. "Only in the line of duty."

"Uh, no…" Dancer trailed off as Kuryakin again slackened his cleaning pace. "You didn't—crap, did I put my foot in my mouth?"

"No. No, of course I knew," Illya lied through his teeth, literally, according to a more common modern usage. "If you brought that article on electronic MOF sensors that you mentioned, perhaps you would be kind enough to read it aloud for me," he added, scrubbing more intensely than was generally necessary for the polishing of a window that was already more clean than not.

After another ninety minutes of unnecessarily vehement housecleaning done to the backdrop of chemistry journals being read, April left for home and Illya was left to chew on what she'd said.

Flirting.

Promiscuously.

April knew. She seemed to think Illya knew. That probably meant other people actually did know, which meant Napoleon wasn't being particularly subtle—except around Illya. At least, it would seem an odd coincidence that Napoleon didn't happen to flirt with other people when Illya was in the vicinity.

And if he was hiding this specific activity specifically from his boyfriend… was there anything else? Illya did occasionally overhear chatter from the population of female employees at U.N.C.L.E.-New York. While he'd assumed the overwrought admirations of Solo's looks and charm and… particular… skills were simply remnants of the man's past habits, the new information he'd gleaned from Dancer raised some doubts.

Illya took off his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes. This simply would not do. Napoleon would be home from his last class of the week in less than an hour, and he'd gotten too good at reading Illya's moods. He'd know something was up even if the Russian didn't say so, and Illya had no point of reference on how to bring up his concern—or even if he should mention it. After all, it was (probably) just flirting, and that was (probably) mostly harmless.

Probably. Probably. Probably.

One probably too many.

Actually, any probably was too many. Too much. Ridiculous!

He trusted Napoleon. Still trusted Napoleon. Right? Right. Right!

"Aha!" Illya exclaimed to the empty room. He patted his laptop in a silent apology for neglecting his work, then grabbed his phone to text April and see if she could minimize a probably or two.

 _Illya: You only meant that Napoleon flirts with Gerry over the communicator, yes?_

 _April: No… you should probably talk with Napoleon_

 _Illya: I will._

Not necessarily about this particular topic, of course. After all, he trusted Napoleon.

It was probably just flirting.

Probably just talking.

Napoleon probably wouldn't develop an attachment to the others with whom he flirted.

Probably wouldn't be taken in by their willingness to "put out" sooner than the Russian.

Probably wouldn't leave Illya for someone more scintillating.

Probably.

Probably.

Probably.

* * *

 _Friday_

Illya was much more reserved than Napoleon was used to in a partner.

Most obviously, they were half a year into a relationship and still hadn't rounded the bases. At first, that was due to Kuryakin's making it clear via (hopefully) overstated threats of extreme violence that Solo would be well-advised to keep his hands and thoughts above the belt. Then, it was because Illya turned out to be younger than he'd initially admitted—then, because he confessed to being rather more naïve in matters of the flesh than Napoleon could have guessed. Now, because the American wasn't sure about the etiquette of propositioning someone whose parents had recently died, even if that someone had insisted that everything was fine, he'd accepted it, let's carry on as normal.

Also noticeable was that, for every four or five times Napoleon initiated contact, Illya took the initiative once. Sometimes he acted abruptly, smashing their mouths together in one sudden swoop, as if he were afraid he'd change his mind with even a microsecond more of contemplation. Others, he'd work up to it slowly, inching closer as they sat together on the sofa until he finally reached out to join their hands.

Perhaps most disconcerting, however, was how quiet Kuryakin was in particular situations. Solo didn't mind so much that his offerings of _"I love you_ " or _"beautiful"_ remained largely unremarked-upon: his main concern was that it was somewhat difficult to assess how his attentions were being received without the indications of pleasure to which he was accustomed. Nary a sigh, hum, moan, or sweet nothing to be heard.

So, loath as he was to interject intermissions into their make-out sessions, he made a habit of checking in every so often.

" _Is this okay?" "Do you like this?" "Are you happy?"_

Now, even with Illya half in his lap and too involved to notice that the commercial break on the TV had ended (which Napoleon assumed were positive responses), seeking verbal consent had become second nature, so he still asked.

"Yes, Napoleon, this is very nice. Am I supposed to ask if you are enjoying yourself every thirty seconds, as well?"

"Uh, no…"

"Ah, I went over," Illya commented with a glance back to the documentary now playing on the screen. "Pardon me."

He patted Napoleon's arm—the official signal for a break—and, seconds later, had straightened out his pajama top and readjusted himself to sit comfortably beside his boyfriend and watch the show. Napoleon attempted the same, but a quick sidelong glance turned into a long sideways stare and demolished that plan.

The flush from their recently abated activity was still fresh on the Russian's cheeks. His lips were a bit swollen and slightly redder than normal, a small smile quirking the edges upward. The blond hair was notably disarrayed and, really, could he look any more appealing?

It seemed the answer was yes, as Illya absently undid the top button of his shirt, presumably from having grown somewhat overwarm, and rolled his head back for a moment to stretch his neck. Napoleon swallowed hard and briefly debated how upset the younger man would be if he broke his promise to restrict their fooling around to the commercial interruptions.

He decided that, considering Illya had accidentally overstepped the boundary himself, the worst result would likely be mild irritation, so he draped an arm around Illya's shoulders, using his fingertips to lightly trail along the upper arm. Illya shifted a bit closer until their hips were just touching, so Napoleon brought his hand a bit higher, brushing across his shoulder until he was gently massaging from his hairline to behind the ear and the base of his neck. Shortly after, eyes still on the screen, the blond head tilted slightly to lean into the lazily traveling hand.

Since this seemed to be going reasonably well, Napoleon brought his face nearer until he could lightly nuzzle his nose at the nearer ear and press a kiss to the jaw. Illya bit his lip and stopped breathing for a moment, and Napoleon settled his massaging hand so he could feel as the pulse accelerated rapidly and pounded more emphatically.

Once breathing had resumed, albeit shallowly, Napoleon waited a bit more and then asked quietly, "Is this okay?" Upon receiving a brief nod and a "yes", he proceeded with a slow trail of kisses down the pale neck—until he got to the collarbone and was startled by a sound somewhere between a moan and a whine. If Illya's suddenly tensing was any indication, he was equally startled.

It apparently was an indication, as he swiftly squirmed out of the American's embrace and scooted away to the far end of the sofa, eyes blown wide. The blue gaze glanced downward briefly and, before Napoleon's brown orbs could follow, Illya grabbed one of the throw pillows and pulled it into his lap, cheeks flaming.

Nearly a minute later, the scarlet blond managed at a slightly higher pitch than usual, "I… I think we should have that talk soon."

Solo cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah—yeah, we'll do that."

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Good." Illya looked back to the TV, but almost immediately gave up and turned to Napoleon. He couldn't hold the gaze, though, so he buttoned the top of his pajamas again and then kept his eyes on his hands as they rested on the pillow and the flush plunged further down his neck. "How about Saturday? After dinner, perhaps."

"Sure." Once his brain had caught up with his mouth, he added, "Wait—this Saturday?"

"Yes. Tomorrow. Will that be acceptable?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Excellent."

"Okay."

"Thank you."

"Sure thing."

Illya tugged at his collar as if trying to convince it to cover a bit more skin.

"I, uh, know I promised not to do that."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes. It—it was very nice, though."

"Oh, good."

"I think I will sleep in my own room tonight."

"Oh—'kay." He'd rather quickly grown used to having Illya share his bed over the past few weeks, albeit with an indisputably and rather obnoxiously respectable distance between them. "I, uh—that's fine. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I am not upset and I trust you to stop if I tell you to but… I am not certain that I would tell you to stop." He moved to get up, then sat down again, checked briefly under the pillow on his lap, and said, "A… a cold shower is the standard procedure, yes?"

"Yeah, yup, that's the thing to do… yup."

Illya raised an eyebrow at the overhasty delivery.

Napoleon raised his brows in return, briefly wondered to himself whether Illya could possibly, actually be unaware of the alternative, and recovered quickly to reaffirm, "Yup. Cold shower should do the trick."

"Then I will do that and retire to my room for the night."

"Okay. Good night."

Illya moved to get up again, sat again, and gestured vaguely at the television. Napoleon took the hint and averted his eyes until he heard the click of the bathroom door shutting, then sighed and let himself fall over to occupy the rest of the sofa. At least his lapse in self-restraint had apparently coincided with Illya's willingness to potentially take their relationship to another level.

Unless he was scared off by The Talk, which—oh, yeah—Napoleon had volunteered to provide. And it wasn't as if that could go catastrophically awry in a multitude of ways.

The shower went on—and, oh crap, how much was he going to have to explain? Probably a lot. Too much. More than he really wanted to. But he'd promised to explain as best he could and, as he'd broken one promise today, it probably would not go over well if he went back on his word two days in a row.

He exhaled another sigh and sat up, grabbing his phone off the table to check the time. Nine-thirty. They usually dined at six-thirty, so it was under twenty-four hours before Illya would be staring at him with those intelligent, innocent, expectant, gorgeous eyes, waiting… to hopefully not be horrified and scarred for life.

* * *

 _Saturday_

"April."

"Yeah?" After several moments of no follow-up, she looked up from her desk in their shared office at U.N.C.L.E.-New York. "Did you want something or what?"

Napoleon rolled his chair closer to April's desk, leaning in to cross his arms on the surface. "Yes, but I'm not sure if I'm submitting to female stereotypes and I don't want to offend you."

Frowning, she suggested, "If you have to preface it with that, it probably is offensive. You're earning bonus points for sensitivity, though, so you can tell me anyway and I'll let it slide this time."

He flashed a smile and started organizing the half dozen pens and pencils scattered around between them. "Well, I wanted to ask a favor, but it's kind of banking on your having some kind of innate, uh…"

"Motherly…?" April guessed dryly.

"…capacity for navigating the explanation of potentially delicate interpersonal situations."

April rolled her eyes, but only a little since she was holding to her promise to "let it slide" just this once. "If you need that kind of advice, dude, ask your mom."

"I did consider that, but I thought it might get awkward." He picked up one particularly stubby pencil and somewhat impressively managed to twirl the short stick around his fingers.

"More awkward than this?"

"Yep."

Not certain that she really wanted to know the answer, yet somewhat intrigued by the nervously-fiddling-with-a-pencil shtick, she asked, "Okay, then, what's the favor?"

"I, uh, need to give someone The Talk and was hoping to get some helpful hints regarding the same."

Dancer grinned. "What idiot thought to put you in charge of something like that? I didn't even know you knew any Talk-age kids."

Solo tapped his chin with the eraser end of the pencil. "I did, and I don't." At her look of confusion, he clarified, "I put me in charge, and I don't know any traditionally 'Talk-age' humans well enough for their parents to entrust them to my worthy guidance." At her look of further confusion, he further clarified in a quieter voice, "Illya needs it and I volunteered to provide."

" _What_?"

"I mean, he said he knows the basics of procreation—although I might go over that to make sure he didn't get any weird ideas about it—but nothing about what goes on between two guys—"

"Okay, okay, I see why you didn't want to ask your mom…"

"Thank you."

"…but I don't see why you decided on me as a consultant, 'cause I sure as hell don't have any helpful hints regarding how to explain it to the person you want to do it with." She patted him on the head. "Good luck, though."

"Aw, why don't I get pets on the head?"

Napoleon turned and April looked up to find Mark Slate playfully pouting in the doorway.

"I daresay I deserve head-pets at least as much as Polo," Slate went on, managing an impressive turn and flop into his own desk chair—impressive, that is, in that he did not end up actually cracking his skull into the wall, despite the risk of such an occurrence seeming quite substantial for half a second.

"Is Illya lurking around the corner?" was April's greeting to the Brit.

"Nah, he's doing the rounds with Waverly and the computer folks regarding _Operation: Remake the Network's Entire Internet Security System_ for the next…" Mark consulted his watch. "…twenty to thirty minutes or so. Thought I'd pop in here and get a little work done before seeing him back to Uni for some more computer lab-monitoring."

Conveniently ignoring the bit about getting work done, April tapped Napoleon on the wrist and jerked her head in the other guy's direction. "Maybe you should ask Mark's advice. He's a big brother so he's probably got more helpful instincts than I do."

"Sure!" Mark chirped. "I'm always glad to give my unqualified opinion on anything. What ails ye, Polo?"

Napoleon rolled his chair over to Mark's desk. "I need tips on explaining and/or answering questions about sex. Go."

"It's gonna be awkward and you'll regret everything no matter what you do, so just go for it. Explain whatever you gotta explain, answer whatever you gotta answer—don't act judgy toward whoever's doing the asking, 'cause they might feel as weird about it as you do—and just be done with it."

There were several moments of quiet as Solo and Dancer blinked, first at Slate and then at each other.

"What?" Mark finally demanded.

"Dude, that was good," April burst out, and Napoleon agreed, "Solid guidance, Mr. Slate."

"Cheers." Mark frowned. "Should I be insulted that it came as such a shock to you?"

"Of course not," came the chorused response, so Mark sighed heavily and grumbled about being surrounded by ingrates.

* * *

 _Sunday_

"It is enjoyable."

Napoleon looked up from the cutting board. "Beg pardon?"

"If it is done for recreational purposes, I assume it is enjoyable. What we discussed yesterday."

"Oh. Yes. Different people find different things _enjoyable_ , of course, but most folks enjoy some variation on the theme." He went back to the food prep. "It's sort of an extension of kissing, which you've mentioned you think is nice."

"You enjoy it with women. I am not that."

"I did happen to notice that, chou."

"And you are confident that you would enjoy that… variation on the theme?"

"Yes."

"And if you do not?"

"Then, with your permission, we keep trying until we figure it out." Napoleon paused his task again to look back at Illya. "I like you. And I like what we've already done together. I imagine the worst-case scenario is that it turns out to be slightly less than mind-blowingly amazing."

Illya sighed a bit, gaze dropping to the counterspace before Napoleon. "You always prepare too much."

Napoleon took a second to recalibrate his brain to the sudden switch in topic, then offered a wry smile and, "Since _someone_ refuses to cut down on his exercise routine, has trouble absorbing nutrients, and needs to put on about twenty pounds, I only make as much as you need. Besides, you've been eating it." He frowned. "Unless, of course, you've been throwing it away."

"I eat it. I don't enjoy the latter part of it."

"The doctor mentioned that it would get easier though, right? Once your intestines have recovered more?"

"Yes, my appetite is much stronger once I have gone some time with the appropriate diet. As I had been doing poorly for a few months, however, it is taking longer to recover. Hence my juvenile moaning and groaning on the matter."

"This is the first time you've moaned and groaned since starting on your new and improved diet. You're entitled to do that every once in a while."

Illya grunted and went back to scribbling out diagrams, so Napoleon resumed his own task. He was just setting up to hard-boil a few eggs when the Russian piped up again with, "Would you like to moan and groan a bit?"

"All's satisfactory on my end, my friend."

Illya arched an eyebrow. "Is it really?"

Napoleon raised a brow in return. "Is there something with which I am supposed to be dissatisfied?"

"I hope so. That is, I regret your dissatisfaction, but the alternative… I would regret that, too." He bent his head back to his work.

"Not to be dense, but what are we talking about?"

Illya spoke to his notebook on the table. "If the topic is not leaping to the forefront of your mind, it is presumably not a concern. I apologize for bringing it up."

"Bringing what up?"

"If you do not know, it is the same as if I had not brought up anything."

"Except that now I'm wondering what the heck you're talking about."

"That is preferable to your being aware of what I was talking about, as it was quite inappropriate for my thoughts to have been in that direction."

"Could I trade one _'moan and groan'_ for a _'please tell me what the hell you think I should be dissatisfied with'_? Otherwise, this is going to drive me nuts and I'll actually have something I want to moan and groan about."

Illya sat up straight and met the American's gaze to explain in a clipped tone, "Infidelity, Napoleon. Women at the office are not especially subtle when they reference you in conversation. What is less easily discernable are the dates of the alleged… encounters."

Napoleon peered into the water he'd set to boiling, put in a few eggs, set the lid on top, and came over to sit across from Illya. "I haven't gone out with anyone but you since we met."

The blue eyes dropped. "They were not talking about dating," he said very quietly.

"I haven't slept with anyone since we started dating, either."

They rose again. "Then how can you claim not to have anything with which you are dissatisfied? There is something you enjoy and you have not been able to enjoy it for several months."

Napoleon sighed. "Alright. I am a little… frustrated."

"Dissatisfied."

"Fine. In that one, single, solitary, specific, individual aspect of my life, I am not entirely satisfied."

Illya nodded sharply. "Tonight then." Back to scribbling.

Solo blinked a few times. This was clearly not his day, so far as following Kuryakin's conversational trail went. "'Tonight then' what?"

"Tonight, we shall make some attempt at addressing your suboptimal level of satisfaction." At the lack of an immediate response, Illya looked up with half a smile, just long enough to remark, "I can hear the gears of your mind turning," before returning to his notebook.

"No. No, you can't. That's not gear-turning, Illya. That's short-circuiting."

"Is that good, in this context?"

"It's…." Napoleon let out something between a groan and a sigh as he let the side of his head rest on his fist. "It's bonkers."

"Definition, please."

"It's crazy. Illya." Napoleon reached out with both hands to stop the Russian's pencil from moving, prompting the attached person to lift his gaze. "Illya, Illya, Illya."

The blond head cocked to one side. "Is what I proposed not what you want?"

"It is, it really is, and that's why it's crazy that I have to say that we are not doing anything outside of the usual tonight."

"Ah." Illya nodded a bit. Blinked. Briefly glanced to the side. "Why do you have to?"

"Because you can't decide to take a big step like that on the basis of my 'suboptimal satisfaction'."

"Why not? You have been very patient with me. Why should I not make some effort to do something for your benefit?"

"First of all, because sex is not something you should generally use as a means of—of—evening the score or whatever. Second of all, because a first time should be because you want it for yourself, not because you want it for someone else."

"I… do want it."

"Tonight, specifically?"

Illya took his arrested pencil in his other hand and tapped the eraser end on the table, seemingly to give himself something else to look at.

"Well?"

He tapped a few more times. "I…" Tap. "…am not sure."

"Okay then. The next day we'll have all to ourselves is Saturday. What say we let the idea sort of percolate for the week and revisit the topic then?"

Tap, tap, tap. "Very well." Tap.

"You know, when you say 'very well' in that particular tone, sometimes it turns out that something is slightly… not right."

Tap, tap. "Nothing is not right." Tap.

"You sure?"

"Quite." Tap. "I am satisfied with the resolution of our conversation." Tap, tap. "It is simply annoying when I misread a social situation." Tap, tap, tap. "Particularly one involving such a sensitive topic as this."

Napoleon brought the captured hand in to kiss the knuckles, then released it with a couple of pats. He went to the cabinets to partition out the week in nuts. "Out of curiosity," Solo began in the hope of distracting Kuryakin from his listless pencil-tapping, "have we been making any headway in the weight-gaining department?"

Illya sighed heavily, flipped to a new page in his notebook, scrawled something in a large hand, and held it up. Napoleon squinted a bit against the light bouncing off the white paper.

 _February: +1.1 lb._

Hoping one of them had accidentally added a period where it didn't belong, Napoleon ventured, "Eleven?"

"You always did have a sense of humor."

"Okay, so it's not as much as we were aiming for, but it's still a step in the right direction so it's still good news."

Illya shrugged. "I expected progress to be slow. I cannot recall ever achieving what is considered a healthy weight."

"Never?"

"Never. But with your generous assistance I fully expect to one day have a physique worthy of a body double for… Chris Hemsworth."

Napoleon couldn't resist a burst of laughter at that point and was relieved when Illya's deadpan expression eased into a hint of a smile. "So we're going for the God of Thunder look, are we?"

"Yes. I need only develop the capacity to grow a full beard."

"Maybe some platform shoes."

"And, at this rate, several years."

"Tell you what, we'll start with aiming for Olympic mid-distance runner, and from there we can look at achieving a full Hemsworth, okay?"

A few minutes later Napoleon glanced over to the table again to find that Illya was already looking right back at him, so he smiled and waved. Illya's ears reddened a bit and he clenched his jaw—generally rather strong signs that the blond was working himself up to saying something nice. The American accordingly kept to puttering around and sorting vegetables rather than doing anything that required more concentration.

"I," Illya got out, so Napoleon returned his focus to the speaker. "I… like your face—it… it is very expressive and I… find it pleasant to look at."

Napoleon grinned. "Why, thank you."

"Then again, you too find it pleasant to look at, so it is not much to say that I happen to agree with you."

"Ouch." Napoleon mimed having been slapped in the face, then went over to the table and said, "Kiss it better," bending over enough to allow Illya easy access. The Russian seemed dubious as to the medicinal value of kissing but, judging that the existence of any wound was similarly imaginary, provided the requested peck on the cheek. "Thanks."

* * *

 _Monday_

"Just one time a week."

"No."

"One floor?"

Illya hesitated. "One floor, one time."

"One floor, once a week."

"Every other week."

"Every week. One floor. One direction. You can choose whether it's going up or down."

Illya stared into the brown eyes for a few moments, then rolled his own and stalked over to the elevator. "Up," he snapped, pressing the appropriate button and tapping his fingers on his thighs as he waited for the lift to arrive.

Napoleon joined him with the reminder, "Only one floor. That's, what, ten feet, give or take?"

"The threateningness of ten feet is relative. Would you care to be dropped upon your head from a height of ten feet?"

"No, but there was that one time I tossed you off a balcony from a height of over ten feet."

"Yes, and I did not like that."

"No, but you survived it."

Illya scoffed and the elevator doors slid open at that point, so he stepped in and white-knuckled the interior railing with one hand. Napoleon followed and pressed the "1" button.

As the doors shut again, Illya said crisply, "Please stand clear of the exit."

Barely five seconds later, the doors opened and the blond strode out, muttering a "pardon me" to the lady he brushed past as Napoleon exclaimed, "Ah, Ms. Ravel! I thought you were one of the upper-story folks."

"I spent the morning visiting one of our neighbors on this floor. I've not seen you around much, Napoleon. Did you move back in recently?"

"Fairly recently, yes. Have you two met?"

Ms. Ravel glanced Illya up and down. "No, but I expect you must be the Russian that Mrs. Brundtland and some of the other old ladies chat about."

The corners of the Russian's mouth tilted down and he subtly cuffed his boyfriend in the ankle with the sword of his sneakered foot.

Napoleon stepped back and stopped the elevator doors from closing again, then gestured with his free hand and offered, "Ms. Ravel."

She nodded once and stepped into the elevator, giving one more nod of acknowledgement as the doors shut.

The brunet sighed and turned to the other man to lament, "I didn't even get to introduce you, but I assume your attempting to skin the back of my leg meant to get rid of her in a hurry."

"You have both sock and trouser to protect you," Illya countered. "And yes, I did want to be rid of her." He started down the hall, toward the stairwell. "I dislike her."

Napoleon followed. "Based on fifteen seconds of contact, you decided that?"

"Yes."

"And how do you like Mrs. Brundtland and her chatty friends?"

"You mean, the gossips."

Napoleon grinned his thanks as Illya held the stairwell door for him. "I guess I do."

"I do not dislike them." Illya came up so they could climb the stairs side-by-side. "They are annoying but harmless. Ms. Ravel is not harmless."

"Not harmless," Napoleon echoed. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"There are no neighbors for her to visit on the first floor."

"Beg pardon?"

"She said she was visiting a neighbor. She lied, for no apparent reason."

"What do you mean, no neighbors on the first floor?"

"I have reviewed the blueprints for the building. Fire safety, you know," he added as an aside. "The first floor consists of storage, offices, and meeting rooms."

"They could have been meeting up in a meeting room," Napoleon suggested slowly.

"Her phraseology did not seem in keeping with that theory. Also, her shoes looked wet, which would suggest some outdoor activity rather than spending the morning indoors. Additionally, her purse appeared to have a bird of a certain kind embroidered on one side."

Illya again held open the door to the corridor, but this time Napoleon paused in the doorway. "And why didn't you lead with the bird purse, Sherlock Kuryakin?" the brunet griped.

"I thought including evidence of deceit would be more damning than mentioning the embroidery alone. Really, Napoleon, we can't judge everyone solely on the basis of their fashion accessories. Mrs. Brundtland dresses Rufus in Harvard jumpers, but I do not suspect the woebegone canine of being matriculated in that institution."

"Well, I'll call in and inform the office." Once they were in the apartment, they did a security sweep and, once they agreed it was clear, Napoleon added, "Ms. Ravel's lived here for years, since before I knew anything about the U.N.C.L.E. or T.H.R.U.S.H., so her living here is probably a coincidence. Still, we can certainly look into upping our security system and finding out if she's a known operative."

"Excellent."

* * *

 _Tuesday_

"Guys, we have a situation."

Kuryakin and Solo looked up from their respective U.N.C.L.E. desks as April Dancer swept into the office, moving to stand behind her desk and lean her knuckles on the surface in sort of a _Serious Business_ pose.

"Mark's due to visit his family over spring break," she continued, "but I think he's going to cancel since he doesn't want to ditch in the middle of an assignment."

"That's ridiculous," Napoleon protested. "He'd only be gone a week. As long as Illya doesn't start doing anything or going anywhere out of the ordinary, you and I could cover for him, no problem." He looked to the monitoring subject in question. "You're not planning anything out of the ordinary, are you?"

"Most of what I do is out of the ordinary," Illya declared, "but I do not have any changes in mind for the immediate future."

April sighed briefly. "I told him that, but he's being all conscientious and whatever. Says he'd feel bad and wouldn't want Bai to think he's welching on his duties."

Illya opened a web browser on his laptop. "Where does his family live?"

"Marlborough."

Illya scrolled around on the screen a bit, frowned slightly, then decided, "It is not ideal, but it will do."

"Do what?" Napoleon wondered.

"If I decide to spend my spring break in or around historic Wiltshire County, surely Mr. Slate would not be so neglectful of his duties as to not join me. If one or both of you are willing to come, he might also happen to find himself with some amount of time to spend with his family."

"I'm in."

"Sounds pretty ideal to me," grinned April.

"Marlborough itself has little of interest to me," Illya countered. "It is, however, within an hour of such places as Oxford and Stonehenge, so I believe we could use its relatively central location to ensure our superiors do not attempt to categorize the trip as a vacation for Mark."

Napoleon pondered this for a moment. "If we're still assigned to you over the summer, think you could develop an interest in something rounds-about Hawaii?"

"No."

* * *

 _Wednesday_

Illya looked up as Napoleon entered the room. He raised an eyebrow as the American stood up on the couch and stepped over, then sat down back of Illya and with a leg on either side. He wrapped his arms around the Russian's midsection and propped his chin on the shoulder.

Before Illya could say anything, Napoleon held up his phone and gestured to the earbuds, indicating that he was listening to the audiobook version of a reading assignment, so Illya quirked a grin and returned to his own work.

Or, rather, he tried to return to his own work but first found he had to take a few moments to adjust to the feel of having someone cuddled up behind him. He decided that he liked it and it was a shame that he had to concentrate on something other than how pleasant it was to have Napoleon so close.

To be held like this.

To feel the steady rise and fall of Napoleon's chest.

To know that someone wanted to be this up close and personal, and that somehow he himself didn't mind the proximity—

Concentrate! School! Work! AI! Encryption!

A few more mental slaps in the face brought him back.

At least for about half an hour.

And then it was impossible to concentrate on something other than how it felt to have another person be so close.

To be held like this.

To feel the rise and fall of another's chest against his back.

To know that someone wanted to be this up close and personal, and that all of a sudden it was completely overwhelming—

And probably—

Probably—

Probably—

Illya stood abruptly, leaving Napoleon to stare after as he went to his room and shut himself in. After a few seconds of wondering what the hell this was about, Solo got to his feet and belatedly followed after.

"Illya?" Napoleon knocked on the door. "Illya, are you alright?" No answer. "Chou?"

"No. Leave."

"Can I help?"

"No. Leave."

"Leave the apartment? Your door?"

"No. Leave."

The American hovered there a few moments more and, upon hearing one additional, "No. Leave," stepped away and opted to wait out this episode back at the coffee table while continuing his reading assignment.

Just as he was about to get up and try to check on Illya again, "London Calling" started playing from his phone. He wasn't overly fond of the song himself, but April had half-jokingly proposed it to him a few years ago, to signal a call from London-born Mark Slate. Mark, who'd been miserably convalescing with the flu for several days, had erupted into an epic and rather painful mixture of laughter and coughing upon hearing the idea, and Napoleon had accordingly taken the suggestion and kept the ringtone ever since.

"Hi, Mark."

 _"Right, then, Polo, how'd you put him up to it?"_

Despite having a fair idea of what the Brit was referring to, Napoleon made a show of clearing his throat and inquired, "Put who up what?"

Mark started answering, thought better of it, and scolded, _"You're trying to make me say something weird."_

Solo attempted an innocent sound, which turned out to be a soft grunt. "I haven't the foggiest notion what you're on about, ah, _mate_."

 _"Yes, you do, and you should know by now that I am entirely capable of saying weird shit all on my own. Anyway—as you also know—what I want to know is how you got Illya to settle on Marlborough as his preferred destination for spring break. Bai just told me the lot of us are off to Mother England but soon."_

Napoleon hummed. "Marlborough's not far from Stonehenge and Oxford. I guess Mr. Monitoring Assignment wants to stare at a bunch of rocks and swing by the old alma mater."

 _"Hmph. Didn't think Sparky seemed the nostalgic type, but if that's what we're goin' with… cheers."_

"Thank April and Illya. April brought up your conundrum, and Illya proposed the solution."

 _"Well, you were presumably in the room or whatever, so you can have some secondhand thanks."_

Napoleon hummed again in acknowledgement, then went quiet to wait and see if there were any additional orders of business Mark wanted to address.

Several moments later: _"Alright, Polo, what's the matter?"_

Solo side-eyed the phone. "How's that?"

 _"I asked, what's the matter? I know there's something bugging you, so what gives?"_

"How do you know something's bugging me?"

 _"I have me ways. And no, I'm not telling you me ways, 'cause then you'd make sure to thwart my methodology and I'd never again know when something's up you—up with you."_

The American sighed a bit. "It's—"

 _"If you say it's nothing, I swear to god I'll reach through your fucking phone and throttle you, physics be damned."_

"Okay, it's not nothing, but it's nothing… dire. Just a little personal stuff between me and Illya." Napoleon sighed. "I just have the unreasonable feeling that I've been horribly miscast."

" _The fuck are you on about?"_

"Well, we've got sort of an 'I love you, I know' thing going on and I got the wrong line."

" _Eh?"_

"You know. Star Wars?"

" _Never seen any of those, Polo. And April's already said she'll disown me if I don't sit my arse down and watch it soon, so I'm sorted on that, thanks."_

"Okay, so there's a line where Leia—the cinnamon-roll-buns girl?"

" _Right."_

"Says, 'I love you,' and Han Solo—Harrison Ford?"

" _Yeah, yeah."_

"Says, 'I know.' My name is literally Solo! I'm supposed to be 'I know', not 'I love you'."

" _Uh, yeah… right."_ Mark cleared his throat to banish some befuddlement from his voice. _"Right then, Leia, what's your point?"_

"I never thought I'd be the one doing the running in a relationship. I mean, I wasn't even looking for a relationship, and I kind of always assumed that one day I'd meet a girl and she'd pretty much have to rope me in."

" _Kinky. Again: point?"_

Napoleon sighed again. "I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I just—I guess I just don't understand him sometimes and I can't figure out how to get us on the same wavelength."

" _Well, we do use frequency hopping, you know."_

"Wha—oh. Radio communication jokes. Har, har."

" _Alright, alright, tough crowd. I guess the good news is, sometimes Illya don't understand you either."_

"That's the good news?"

" _Yeah. 'Cause even though you both confuse each other, you're willing to take the time out of your lives to work it out when you can and wait it out when you can't."_

Napoleon grunted. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but I really don't mind putting in the effort. You just happened to catch me at a moment of frustration. Does it always feel like you're repeatedly slamming headfirst into a steel wall when you try to really get close to someone?"

 _"A bit, perhaps, but I think a lot of it's more Illya-specific than that._ _Anything I can help with, or can you sort it out between you two?"_

The American shrugged. "I think I pissed him off or something but I have literally no idea what I did."

" _Have you tried—I dunno—asking him?"_

An eyeroll later, "Soon as he's talking to me again, I'll consider that, thank you."

" _Right. Anyway, thanks again for helping to preserve my skip across the pond."_

"Sure. It'll be nice to see your people again."

" _Yeah. And this time my mind can be at ease."_

"If you are referencing my previous interactions with your sister, let's make it perfectly clear that she was the one doing the flirting and I was the one dutifully pretending not to notice."

" _When I was looking, at least."_

"And when you weren't looking, too."

" _Mate, you'd flirt with a cucumber if it had a nice figure."_

"I don't know what that means, but I assume my reaction should be: ew."

" _It means that I'm fairly certain you consider my sister to be aesthetically superior to a vegetable and I therefore don't believe you weren't flirting back. But I forgive you since I assume your attentions will remain duly dedicated to your significant other, this time round."_

Napoleon offered an appropriately chilly farewell and hung up.

Almost fifteen minutes later, Illya's bedroom door opened and the Russian quietly returned to the sofa, settling himself close enough that his and Napoleon's knee were touching. His features were a bit drawn and his eyes red, although there was no trace of tears or remnants of moisture. As Napoleon hadn't heard him stop in the bathroom to wash up, he concluded that there had been some significant eye-rubbing to stymie the unwelcome operation of tear ducts.

Solo removed his earbuds, paused the audiobook, and murmured, "Is it something I did?"

"Yes. But the fault lies with me, not you."

"Regardless, I don't want to upset you again. What did I do?"

Illya folded his hands in his lap, looking at them as he shook his head.

"Okay. Maybe you'll want to talk about it later."

"I doubt that."

"Okay. Can I hold you or is that what bothered you?"

In response, Illya leaned into Napoleon's side, and the latter accordingly put an arm around his shoulders.

"Have I told you I love you lately?"

"Incessantly."

Napoleon paused. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

Illya glanced up with a frown. "You are fishing. Did we not establish that I do not want to talk about it?"

"Okay, okay, but if this is about the topic we were planning to revisit on Saturday, I don't want you to be feeling, uh, pressured or anything."

"You have demonstrated your capacity for patience, Napoleon. I am not pressured." Illya leaned forward to his assorted supplies on the coffee table. "I am, however, also not without work to do, and I am sure the same could be said of you."

Solo grunted in acknowledgement. "Before you get back to the grind, Mark called. He appreciates your willingness to schlep yourself out to England for his benefit."

Illya shrugged. "Is that not something a friend would do?"

"It is. And it's a nice thing to do."

"There is nothing particularly nice in doing what is expected of you."

"You're not going to tell me you're doing it completely out of duty, and not at all because you wanted to make Mark happy."

Illya paused in opening a notebook. "I don't know. Mark has always been kind to me, so it seems appropriate to reciprocate. Does that mean I want to make him happy?"

"Mm-hm."

"Oh." He blinked a few times. "I have grown quite sentimental, it seems."

* * *

 _Thursday_

 _Waverly's outer office_

"I mentioned to my mum that you lot were coming with," Mark said, "and she invited us to stay at hers. I told the Travel folks here at the office and they approved it. Safety in numbers and all that." He grinned. "It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but we'll not be cooped up in there all day, so… yeah. Save some dough on a hotel."

Napoleon asked and answered, "Does she live in the same place—no, she was living in London when we met her."

"Yeah." For Illya's edification, Mark added, "My mum and siblings and I lived in London. When I moved out here, Mum and the little ones said they might relocate to Marlborough, to be closer to my uncle in Swindon. Finally got 'round to it 'bout a year ago, not long after April and Polo here met them at our old London flat."

"How's the bed situation?" Napoleon piped up again. "Should we plan on bringing sleeping bags or pillows or something?"

"Nah, I think we can manage to sardine it bed-wise, and Mum will make sure we're sorted with pillows and such." Reading another reason behind the question, the Brit turned back to Illya. "The bedroom situation is there's four rooms. Mum will keep hers, April can bunk with my sister, and I'll share with my brother. You alright sharing with Polo here?"

"That will be fine, thank you," the Russian confirmed.

"And my folks have already met April and this other guy, so they're old news. Brace yourself, as you'll be the only fresh meat around."

Illya turned a look on Napoleon that the American easily interpreted as _why did you not warn me about this before I nobly suggested a group trip to Marlborough?_ , then suggested with a reasonably believable smile to Mark, "Tell me about your family, if you like."

"My mum's a single mum, and I'm the eldest of the three. We're spaced out with two years between each of us. So: me, then Arthur, then Cynthia. Cyn rather fancied Napoleon last time out, but she's not one to hold a grudge so I don't imagine she'll give you too terrible a time."

"They are students, perhaps?"

"Art's in uni and Cyn's on her gap year, so she'll probably have more time to harass us than Art will. If you're going out to Oxford or wherever, though, and don't care for her company, just give me the heads up and I'll try to, uh, curb her enthusiasm."

The quartet looked over to the secretary's desk as the intercom beeped a few times. Ms. Khan pressed a button to make it shut up, then announced, "You can go in now," so the quartet headed in and seated themselves around the massive table.

"Given the events of your last trip overseas," Waverly began, "we will be taking some additional precautions this time around. Fortunately, Mr. Slate's family is aware of his position, so it should be easy enough for them to accommodate those measures."

The section head turned the table and April was the first to open the envelope that landed before her, producing an American passport, which she examined. "Jennifer Edwards," she read. "Aliases, sir?"

"For most of you, yes. Mr. Slate has not, on his own, attracted the attention of T.H.R.U.S.H. of yet, and it is his family that lives in Marlborough, so he will keep his own name. The rest of you will use aliases to avoid producing the effect of U.N.C.L.E. operatives travelling en masse. Miss Dancer, Mr. Solo, you will be using your middle names paired with your mothers' maiden names."

Slate promptly plucked the passport from Solo's hands. He jabbed a finger at the name he found within. "Are you sure Napoleon's not putting us on, Mr. Waverly?"

Waverly's lips twitched.

April reached over and pilfered Napoleon's open passport before he could grab it back himself. " _Francis Bacon_?"

Napoleon managed to recover the booklet at that point and Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. Dancer and Slate attempted to contain their mirth and the chief proceeded with, "Mr. Kuryakin, as your middle name is based on your father's name, and your mother's maiden name is known to T.H.R.U.S.H., combining the two seemed unlikely to provide much of a cover. We drew instead from an alternate spelling of your own name, and your maternal grandmother's maiden name."

The Russian didn't bother opening the Ukrainian passport in front of him as he guessed, "I-L-I-A Davidovich."

"Indeed, Mr. Kuryakin. You will utilize your aliases exclusively, although Mr. Kuryakin can of course make exceptions if he comes across people he has previously been acquainted with. Mr. Slate, you will advise your immediate family of the situation and ensure they adopt the appropriate names for Solo and Dancer."

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Dancer, as Jennifer Edwards you will be a freelance journalist, on holiday but on the lookout for stories relating to social issues. Mr. Solo, as—" A discreet cough. "—Francis Bacon you will be an associate producer for a daytime talk show, on an engagement trip with your fiancé, Ilia Davidovich—an adjunct instructor in the Physics department of a university in the New York state system."

Solo offered Kuryakin a lopsided grin and, "Did you want a ring?"

Illya glanced down to his father's wedding ring on his finger and muttered, "I have one, thank you."

Waverly pressed on: "You are booked on a flight this Monday to Heathrow and from there will claim a rental car that has been arranged for you. From the airport, you will proceed to our London office to confirm your safe arrival and receive instruction as to resources that will be available to you in Wiltshire County in case of emergency. I understand you are to stay with Mr. Slate's family?"

"Yes, sir," Mark said. "My mum's house in Marlborough."

"I expect at least one of you to remain with Mr. Kuryakin at all times, even within your mother's home. If you leave Wiltshire County prior to the time of your return flight to New York, contact the London office to inform them of your itinerary, so that they may apprise you of U.N.C.L.E. resources in the new county. In particular, I must ask that you be especially cautious if you decide to visit Cambridge. That is, after all, an old haunt of Dr. Egret, as well as where we believe our former CEA Elinor Crane vanished, so I expect the four of you to stay together in the event you go there."

"Yes, sir," Napoleon chipped in.

"And for your part, Mr. Kuryakin, you must keep Dancer, Slate, and Solo informed of your movements. If you so much as set one foot outside of the Slate residence, you must inform at least one of them."

"Understood," Illya said with a nod.

"You will also be expected to spend some of your evenings working. You seemed quite close to having a preliminary version of the online network ready, and I should like to see some part of it launched soon."

"Of course."

"Excellent. Well, then. The four of you will be notified of any further instructions as necessary. If I don't see you again before you depart, have a safe journey. Dismissed."

The quartet stood.

"Ah—one other matter."

They sat.

"Mr. Solo, you mentioned recently that you and Mr. Kuryakin had cause to be suspicious of a resident in your building."

"Yes," Napoleon confirmed. "Ms. Ravel."

"Gervaise Ravel is not known to be a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent, but she has done business with T.H.R.U.S.H. corporations on several occasions. It is not clear whether she is aware of the true nature of those corporations, but we will prepare and install a new security system while you are away. Upon your return from England, be sure to check in here to be briefed on the new system. Dismissed."

As soon as they were out of Waverly's inner office and the door shut behind them, April cleared her throat and intoned, "Francis Bacon."

Mark accordingly burst into giggles and Illya deadpanned, "So this is why you are so familiar with the works of Shakespeare."

Napoleon sighed but couldn't resist smiling a bit.

Once they'd left the outer office and Mark had contained his cackles, the Brit commented, "Nice of the old boy to make it easy for you to hold hands, etcetera."

Napoleon grinned wider and nudged Illya's elbow. "So who do you think popped the question, beloved?"

Illya put a couple of fingertips to one ear as if assessing its temperature, ruffled a bit of hair to cover the pink, and based on that decided, "It seems quite obvious that it must have been your idea. Let us be careful not to overplay the scenario, however."

Napoleon fluttered his eyelids. "Hmm? I'm sorry, honey-bunny, I was too busy getting lost in your dreamy blue eyes to pay attention. What did you say?"

"I want a divorce."

* * *

 _Friday_

Supervising a computer lab was about as dull as one would expect it to be. At least, it was until it became slightly less dull than Illya would prefer this particular morning, as an ominous buzzing sensation interrupted his routine of splitting his time between studying and glancing over the undergrads for any overt signs of extreme distress. The buzzing wasn't the short _bzzt-bzzt_ of a text, but the prolonged _bzzzzzzzzz … bzzzzzzzzz_ of a phone call.

He drew the device from his pocket and gazed upon the screen in the desperate hope that it would be an unknown number or someone else he could justifiably ignore, but—Mrs. Solo. No luck. Illya considered the likelihood of Napoleon's mother giving up versus attempting to call again, didn't like the odds, and tapped the _Accept_ icon to submit to his fate before he could change his mind.

"Good morning, Mrs. Solo."

" _Hello, Illya. Do you have a few minutes or should I call back later?"_

"I am on-call to assist students in the computer lab so we might be interrupted, but I should have enough time to discuss what you wish."

" _Alright. I—oh, before I get straight to the heart of the matter, how are you doing?"_

"All is well."

" _I'm glad to hear it. So I'm calling because—well, we were going to surprise you and Napoleon, but Mr. Solo thought we should give one of you a heads-up."_

Oh, dear.

" _Since Napoleon hasn't been able to visit us since October, we're flying in for the weekend to visit you! Amy mentioned that you boys didn't seem to mind sharing a room when she came over, so I hope we won't be putting you out too much."_

"It will be a pleasure to see you again. Napoleon, especially, will be pleased. When will you be arriving?"

" _Tomorrow morning. We'll stay overnight and leave Sunday night."_

"Will you need a lift from the airport? I'm sure April would not mind being of assistance."

" _Oh, April's a sweetheart so I'm sure she wouldn't mind, but we'll take a cab and be at the apartment around nine. We'll have a bite on the flight, so just have your breakfast whenever you normally have it."_

"Very well. You wish this to remain a surprise for Napoleon?"

" _Yes. I just talked to him a few days ago and he didn't mention any big plans for the weekend—there aren't, are there?"_

"No. No plans."

" _Oh, good. Mr. Solo was afraid we'd be horning in, but it's not even two days so I hope you don't mind too much."_

"To the contrary, we are delighted. That is, I am delighted and I am sure Napoleon will be, as well."

" _Okay, then I won't keep you any longer. We'll see you tomorrow, Illya."_

"Yes. Goodbye."

* * *

 _Saturday_

Illya peered through the peephole and opened the door upon visually confirming the identity of the party in the hall. He somewhat regretted that decision when he was abruptly engulfed in a hug.

"Oh, Illya. I didn't say anything over the phone since I didn't want to distract you if you were working on something, but we're so sorry for your loss. We've experienced sudden loss in our family, too, and I know it's not the same but we do empathize, sweetie. It must have been such a horrible shock when you heard and—well, I know we don't know each other very well, but you mean so much to Napoleon, and that means a lot to us. If you ever, ever need anything at all, never hesitate to ask, okay, dear?"

"That… that is most kind of you, Mrs. Solo," Illya said stiffly. "However, you are here to have a pleasant weekend with Napoleon, so we need not discuss the matter further. Hello, Mr. Solo," he added over her shoulder.

"Glad to see you again, Illya," Mr. Solo smiled before leaning in to whisper to his wife, "I don't think he's big on the hugs, Flora."

Mrs. Solo withdrew, worrying, "You're so skinny. Have you been eating?"

"Exuberantly, madam," Illya assured her. "Napoleon is in the shower just now, but I have cleared your room for you if you would care to put your things there."

"Thank you." As they passed through the apartment, she commented, "We haven't seen the place since you boys moved in. My, you're certainly keeping it clean. Have you hired someone?"

"To clean? No."

"Then this must be your doing," Mrs. Solo beamed. "Oh, Napoleon tries to tidy up after himself, but he isn't the most fastidious of housekeepers."

"A trait passed along through the male side of the family," contributed Mr. Solo.

Illya shrugged one shoulder. "If you are generous enough to allow me to live here, the least I can do is aid in keeping the residence in good order. Additionally, Napoleon is kind enough to do most of the cooking."

"A trait passed along through the female side of the family," Mr. Solo declared. The shower shut off just then, and the Solos accordingly motioned at each other to quiet down to avoid the risk of Napoleon overhearing them from the other room. They briefly disappeared into the bedroom to deposit their overnight things, then returned just long enough to whisper to Illya their intention to hide in the kitchen and pop out from there to surprise their son.

A few minutes later, Napoleon emerged, joined Illya as he peered out the window, and drew the Russian into a deep kiss before he could protest that this might not be the best time—

"My goodness!"

Napoleon promptly detached his lips and Illya removed the American's questionably-placed hands from his person.

"Mom, Dad! When did you get here?"

"Just in time, apparently," Mr. Solo chortled as his wife made a show of fanning herself. Her initial exclamation had sounded sincerely shocked, but now she seemed to be trying not to laugh.

Napoleon went over to give them each a hug, then turned back to ask the red-eared blond, "Did you know they were here?"

"Mrs. Solo called yesterday to…" _(…warn…)_ "…tell me."

"Surprise," Mrs. Solo beamed, hugging her son again.

* * *

 _That night_

"It was a surprise, alright," Napoleon remarked as he joined Illya under the covers.

"I'd have told you," came the response, half muffled by a pillow, "but your mother asked me not to."

"That's fine. It's a good surprise. Just… geez Louise, the timing."

"Yes, it is quite fortunate they did not choose next Saturday, as we'd not have returned from England by then."

"Yeah. That's… that's good. I meant that—well, we were maybe going to—"

"Canoodle," Illya suggested.

"—or at least discuss… canoodling," Napoleon couldn't suppress a smileas he spoke, "and now my parents are here until late Sunday, and we're leaving Monday to stay with Mark's mom for a week, so… I swear it's like a lousy rom-com."

Illya blinked at Napoleon's face in the semidarkness. "It is inappropriate to do and discuss things of that nature when anybody's parents are in the same residence?"

"At Mark's mom's house, I'd say it's inappropriate. Here, it's just awkward. Really awkward. Incredibly awkward. I cannot emphasize enough how awkward."

"Ah." Another few blinks. "Then how do multigenerational households reproduce, if it is insurmountably awkward to… engage?"

"I guess they just deal with it or wait until everyone else is out of the house for a little while."

"And you prefer not to deal with it."

"I don't want my prospective first time with someone I really care about to be affected by my being preoccupied with the thought of my parents being _right there_."

"I see." Illya hesitated a moment before offering, "Perhaps your disappointment would be eased if I told you something about myself that might be considered… unpleasant."

Always eager to learn more about his habitually reticent partner, Napoleon nodded with an agreeable grunt.

"Very well then. As a child, one of my favorite pastimes was dissecting small animals." At the dropped jaw, he hastened to add, "I did not kill them, of course."

"Of course," the older man managed to echo.

"There was a pet fish of mine that died on its own, and I found a dead bird in the attic, and there was a small rodent that seemed to have been run over."

Illya paused again, so Napoleon contributed, "Poor little thing."

"Oh." Illya blinked. "Yes. Un… unfortunate." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'd heard that alcohol is sometimes used to preserve organs, so I'd clean out jam jars and store the most intact organs in them with isopropyl alcohol. My mother was quite surprised when she came across them stowed away under my bed, and it was at that point that I commenced my journey of psychiatric evaluations and treatments—"

Napoleon gasped a bit and suddenly sat bolt upright.

"—and no, I do not have the organs of small creatures stored under the bed currently occupied by your parents."

The brown eyes flicked ever-so-briefly downward.

"Nor is there anything untoward stowed beneath this bed. You may rest assured, Napoleon, that the only organs currently in this apartment are those of the humans residing herein. Outside of a few biology courses, I gave up dissections when I learned it was considered abnormal."

Solo laid back down. "I must say I'm glad that you've graduated from dismemberment to minor explosions."

Kuryakin made an irritated sound. "I never dismembered them. I only…" Illya's speech slowed, as if he was just realizing how his words sounded as he spoke them, "…disemboweled them."

Napoleon attempted a smile and did not quite succeed.

Illya mimicked his attempt. "I assume you have been adequately cured of your disappointment."

"Well, I, uh… I've certainly been adequately distracted for the time being."

"That is good." Illya pulled a bit of the sheet higher in a rather defensive gesture. "Did I go too far? That is, have I… permanently dissuaded you?"

"No, not at all." Napoleon reached a hand up to pet at the blond hair. In a further effort to ease the worry, he added, "Do you want me to share something unpleasant about myself?"

"If you like."

"I wouldn't, really. But it's something that would probably come up at some point, so now's as good a time as any." He shifted closer, stealing a brief kiss. "For courage," he explained.

"It is worse than mine?"

Napoleon kissed his nose. "Some folks might think so."

The blue eyes went wide. "Oh." A second of consideration later, he dove in to peck Napoleon's lips, justifying it afterward with, "Extra courage."

"Thank you. Okay. The last time I seriously dated someone was in high school. I broke up with her—well, she broke up with me." Solo smiled weakly. "And she broke up with me because I was a worm and cheated on her."

The rest of him completely still, Kuryakin's eyes darted around at everything aside from the other's face.

"I know you were concerned about my cheating on you—and this is no excuse, but the last time was when I was eighteen and young and stupid."

"So you are saying I am young and stupid as well?" Illya asked quietly, still glancing about.

"No, no, no, and that's why I said it's not an excuse. But I'm a different person now than I was then."

"You flirt, though," the Russian continued softly. "That is not cheating, correct?"

Napoleon winced and rested his hand on the side of Illya's face, hoping that would somehow encourage him to make eye contact again. It only seemed to succeed in fixing the gaze a few inches away from his ear, but he continued nonetheless, "That—that depends on who you ask."

"I am asking you."

"I thought it was harmless. But when you brought up infidelity the other day, I realized that I was deliberately only flirting with other people when you weren't around and that—that tells its own story."

"I am asking you," Illya repeated, still very quietly but now with a more frigid tone as he gazed at the space to the side of Napoleon's ear.

"It's… not the way I cheated on my girlfriend in high school. I don't think of it as cheating because I don't feel about them the way I feel about you, and I don't talk to them the way I talk to you."

"Then it is not cheating," Illya said, a slight question in his voice.

"I don't—didn't—don't think so. I think. But in hindsight—the way I've been going about it… i-it's not great."

Illya turned his face into the pillow, shifting it out from under Napoleon's hand.

"I never did anything physical with them but we never set any rules about flirting with other people, so the default expectation possibly should have been… not doing it." The American started running his fingers through the yellow hair. "I'm sorry."

A muffled sigh was the response, then Illya turned his face back, grasping Napoleon's wrist in one hand to move it away from his head and hold it on the bit of mattress between their respective pillows. He stared at their hands. "Is it simply because you enjoy flirting, or because I do not flirt enough to satisfy you?"

"Illya, this is on me. Yes, I enjoy flirting, but the point is that I shouldn't have been shadily doing it behind your back."

Choosing to ignore the first and last parts, Illya returned, "In that case, let us attempt to set some rules. Let us say that you may flirt with other people, both in the line of duty and for your own enjoyment, but not exclusively and deliberately behind my back. If it turns out that I do not like that, we will revisit the topic."

"No—Illya—"

"You've told me before not to make promises that cannot be kept," he said curtly, his grip on the other's wrist firming slightly. "Do not promise you will not flirt with other people, Napoleon, because it seems to be part of your nature and I will not believe you."

Napoleon cringed. Yes, that hurt. But seeing as Illya had likely assumed that there had been no extracurricular flirting going on whereas Napoleon had been flouting that expectation for months… he couldn't be mad at the proclamation of disbelief.

"Okay," the brunet agreed, "but I promise you're the only person I will touch in a non-platonic manner." He carefully twisted his arm until Illya released his grasp, then gingerly intertwined their fingers and murmured, "Please look at me, chou."

Illya's eyes slid shut at the endearment.

"Please."

Open, and the blue gaze seared through to the back of the American's skull.

"I screwed up. I'm sorry. I know you might not trust me on this right now, but I meant what I promised." Napoleon glanced over to their joined hands, confirming what he'd thought he felt: "You're shaking."

"Noted, thank you."

Solo brought in the unsteady hand, pressing his lips to the knuckles. "I love you. I'm sorry for hurting you—hurting us."

Kuryakin shook his head a bit. "I don't know why it should hurt. You… did not do anything. Certainly nothing that ought to affect me."

"Well, I guess that's part of being in a relationship, caring for someone…."

Napoleon trailed off when Illya pulled his hand free, then almost gave a start as he felt a pair of arms slip around his waist before the blond head tucked itself under Napoleon's chin. Illya generally restricted their physical contact in the sack to a bit of hand-holding and a kiss goodnight, so an embrace like this was novel.

He wouldn't be opposed to more of this, of course, but he'd much prefer if it had more of an air of tenderness about it rather than—fear? Anger? Illya took pains to avoid showing Napoleon his face when he was upset, and tended to tense up when he was angry. Now, his head was ducked low and his hands were clenched into fists behind Napoleon's back, so the American wasn't sure if he was sad, scared, enraged, or some permutation thereof.

In any case, none of those was an emotion he ever wanted to elicit in Illya, who now murmured, "But it… it is making my chest hurt. That… is ridiculous."

Napoleon swallowed down the lump in his throat and lightly rubbed Illya's back. "I'm sorry—"

" _No._ " Illya tightened his hold and the tone of his voice. "Do not apologize again. I can accept a misunderstanding. I cannot guarantee my capacity for forgiveness, so please—there is nothing to apologize for. Nothing to forgive. Do not make it seem there is something where there is nothing. We had a misunderstanding. We now have an agreement. We will go forward with that."

The American was quiet for a few moments, wishing he couldn't still feel the slight trembling of the frame in his arms. "I know you have trouble sleeping around people you don't trust," he murmured. "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?"

"I trust you," came the strained whisper, and the statement was sincere: while Illya had had a few restless nights since a certain conversation with April, he had always known Napoleon to make every effort to be honest. Now that the brunet had come clean, he was somehow more at ease, although he still couldn't stop himself from quietly entreating, "Stay with me."

Napoleon pressed a kiss to the top of his head and Illya wondered when he'd become so pathetic. So emotionally linked to someone. So dependent. So… codependent? He wasn't sure he liked that. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed out of hand Dr. Boateng's suggestion that they discuss his relationship with Napoleon—

But no. His personal life was irrelevant to his work life at U.N.C.L.E., wasn't it? Working on the computers or out in the field, it didn't matter whether Napoleon flirted with girls, or whether he liked petting Illya's hair, or—

Which reminded him that his hair was getting a bit on the long side, and maybe he should consider cutting it soon—

Then again, he hated going for haircuts, and Napoleon did seem to enjoy running his fingers through the growing strands, and gosh, did that feel nice—

The Russian released a disdainful breath for his recently overdeveloped sentimentality and withdrew, murmuring, "Good night," as he turned away. Then he had a thought and returned abruptly, meeting Napoleon's surprised expression with, "Is it a matter of feeling wanted? Would it help if I were more affectionate?"

"I told you: it isn't anything you did or didn't do. It's me, carrying on the way I always have without pausing to consider whether or not it was okay to do that."

Illya frowned. "But I do not like that."

Napoleon inhaled as if to sigh, but instead translated the breath into, "That's why we've reached an agreement, right?"

A small shake of the head. "No. I mean, I do not like that there is nothing I can do."

The American reached to run his fingers through the blond hair again. "Just keep being yourself."

"But it seems that is not enough."

"You've already—" Napoleon almost said _'forgiven me'_ , then caught himself. "—helped by coming up with a path forward. And by not bringing roadkill into the house to harvest organs. You have no idea how much I appreciate that."

Illya blinked. "That is helpful?"

"Sure as heck doesn't hurt."

"Ah. Then I will continue to not do that, thereby easing my anxiety by imagining it to be of assistance."

Now it was Napoleon's turn to have a thought, so he added, "In all seriousness, chou, you can be helpful by calling me out if you don't think I'm satisfactorily living up to our agreement. How's that suit you?"

"I suppose it will have to suffice," Illya murmured, then inhaled in surprise as Napoleon's mouth suddenly covered his own. Several moments later, once the American had moved on to press light kisses to his forehead, he remarked, "Do not construe this as a complaint, but is this your new way of shutting me up?"

Napoleon hummed in the negative. "I don't like seeing you worried." He withdrew his face infinitesimally, replacing his lips with delicately moving fingertips.

"I suggest you get used to it, especially until I am able to join you on assignments."

Napoleon chuckled. "What, you don't trust anyone else to have my back?"

"I trust no one to have your back, including myself, but I can at least monitor the situation when I am present."

"Well, I'll try to be as careful as I can until you're available to keep an eye on things."

"No."

"No?"

"You should not specifically seek to be cautious, as that would distract you from focusing on what you ought. You should seek to do your work, and your effectiveness in that arena will inherently include a measure of reasonable caution."

"Okay, I'll try to do my work as effectively as possible."

"Thank you."

* * *

 _Sunday_

Mark's expression froze on his face. He leaned back to take another look at the number on the door, then leaned back in, and his mental lightbulb went off. "Oh, you must be Polo's—Napoleon's mum. Illya texted that you'd be popping in for a surprise visit." He thrust a hand forward. "Mark Slate."

"Mark!" Mrs. Solo exclaimed, shaking the offered hand. "Won't you come in?"

"Nah, no need, Mrs. S. I'm just here to pick up Sparky for our run." Mark leaned to the side to look behind her and wave at the blond donning a light jacket. "Hey, Illya!" As the remaining people in the apartment came into view to see the visitor, he added, "Morning, Polo—nice to meet you, Polo's dad!"

"It's Mark Slate," Mrs. Solo told her husband. "You remember Napoleon's mentioned his friend Mark."

"Oh, the English guy," Mr. Solo nodded and then, to Napoleon's mild mortification, added the obligatory Dad Joke: "Gotta run, Mark?"

As the elder Solos chatted a bit more with Slate, Napoleon said in what he thought was a rather soft voice, "Let Mark set the pace this time, okay? Love you," and pressed his lips to Illya's briefly.

Once Illya and Mark had said their see-ya's and departed, however, it turned out he could have turned down his volume a few more notches. When Mrs. Solo face him again, it was with a face-splitting smile and: "Love?"

Napoleon tried not to think about how he was going to be spending the entire day with that overheard four-letter word on his mother's mind, but: "Uh-oh."

"What 'uh-oh'?" Mrs. Solo challenged, coming over to lightly swat the concerned hand Napoleon was using to tap at his chin. "Love is good! Wait—just 'love', or 'in love'?"

"Did I miss something?" Mr. Solo wondered, then jumped as Mrs. Solo whirled around to grab his hand.

"Napoleon's in love!"

"I didn't say that!" Napoleon protested.

"Then why'd you say 'I love you' to him?"

"You said that?" Mr. Solo put in.

Napoleon ran his fingers through his hair. Weighed the possibility of using techniques for resisting T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogations. Looked at how thrilled his mother was and the eager light in his father's eyes. Sighed. "Yes, I said that."

Mr. Solo beamed. "I told you. I told you in October: wedding bells."

"What? No! Illya—the last thing he would need is for you to pounce on him with this. He knows what I've told him, and I know he cares about me even if I'm not sure it's at the 'love' level—"

"Of course it is!" Mrs. Solo exclaimed. "You don't see how he is with people when you're not around. He's polite on his own but when you're with him he perks right up and, I dare say, is almost friendly at times. It's like flipping a light switch, my dear. He adores you."

Napoleon processed this for a second. "Okay. Okay. Regardless of that, my point is that Illya is uncomfortable with discussing emotions and it would really not help my case for being willing to take it slow if you guys are picking out china patterns. We are nowhere near even thinking about—about _marriage_ at this point." (Except, of course, for phony engagements over spring break, but mentioning that detail would seem bizarre to folks outside of the U.N.C.L.E. loop. And it probably wouldn't help Napoleon's case, anyhow.)

"At this point?" Mr. Solo echoed with a sly grin.

Mrs. Solo sniffed. "When I asked you last summer when you were going to stop fooling around and start looking for an actual relationship, you said you weren't ready. Two months later, you were flying your boyfriend out to Montana."

Napoleon tugged at his collar. "Yes. Well. That was different."

"If you send me a text saying, 'B-T-W, Illya and I eloped'—"

"Not going to happen, mother mine."

"If it does, mother yours is going to give you an earful—"

Mr. Solo smirked. "And father yours will nod along emphatically."

"—although I will be very happy—"

"And I will nod emphatically to that, too."

"—and then I can start badgering you about grandkids."

"Mom!" Napoleon yelped.

"What? You can adopt!"

"That's not…." He sighed. "Well, I guess it's better you get it out of your system before Illya comes back. You can debate whether we should adopt domestically or internationally while I shower. Let me know what you decide," he finished on his way out of the room.

Napoleon pretended not to hear as his father commented, "Maybe they could start with a pet fish and work their way up."

* * *

 _Somewhere in England_

It was a small room, but she wasn't complaining.

"Crane."

After all, it was furnished. There was a window, albeit one with frosted glass and iron bars on it. It was temperature-controlled. She even got a TV and a cooler.

"Crane."

All in all, it wasn't bad. It was almost like a hotel, albeit one of the Hotel California, "you can never leave" variety…

"Over here, love."

…unless…

"Crane, it's time."

…until now.

"Call Slate."

* * *

 **A/N** : Yep, I'm so dang overconfident in my ability to write British people in a non-cringeworthy manner that I'm sending everybody to England! Apologies in advance.

Anyway, kudos on slogging through over 14k words of introductory swill. Yay you!

Updates will likely be on the sluggish side of glacial: stuff is actually happening IRL for me, which is lovely but also somewhat anxiety-inducing so, between being busy and being frazzled, my already-abominably-slow writing pace has taken a bit of a hit. I have every intention of completing the story and high hopes of finishing before the end of summer, but the future is not ours to see and whatever, so... :)


	2. Act II: Musical theater

**A/N** : You're back! (triumphant kazoo)

Welcome to another installment of "Yep, this is as good as it's getting." Can't speak to the style (or copy-editing) of it, but the substance of this chapter accomplishes about what I wanted it to so… yay? Anyway, brace yourself for my potentially (probably) faulty Ukrainian and attempts at writing British speech. I came, I tried, I gave up.

This chapter officially introduces guests from another TV series, but they'll have minor roles. I'll say what series at the end of this chapter, although I dropped a hint in the first chapter so maybe you're way ahead of me.

Chapter **warnings** : Mention of a panic attack but, if you were okay Act II of "Up is Down", this should be fine unless you find its taking place on an airplane disturbing.

* * *

 **Act II** : An aspiring musical theater producer

 _Six years ago_

"Shite, we're idiots. Especially you—also me but… mostly you."

"No argument here."

"Think they'll fall for it?"

Mark pulled a face. "Considering we're here, now, going through with it…."

"I know we're fucking doing it, thanks."

"And we wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think the odds were better'n one-in-two." He grinned. "Then again, I've always been rubbish at maths, so—hell are you doing?"

Arthur Slate's gray eyes narrowed at his brother. "What's it look like?" the brunet snapped as he unzipped the backpack. "Checking that everything's as it should be now, _before_ we try to pass off two actual firecrackers and a bunch of empty boxes as enough shit to blow up a roomful of students. You know which ones to show 'em, right?"

Mark nodded, coming over to squat by the younger teen. He poked a finger at the two genuine articles. "See, I crumpled the bottom left corner on each, and scratched a bit of the color off the top right corner. Not so obvious that they'll notice—" Hopefully. "—but enough for me to pick a suitable sample if they want a demo. Satisfied?"

Arthur shrugged, which seemed the closest thing to an affirmation that he would be inclined to offer, so Mark replaced the stuff to his own taste. After all, he'd be the one selling alleged explosives to several prigs bent on attacking an event at their school.

International Day of Happiness.

The teaching staff decide to observe the UN holiday and some assholes look at that decision and immediately make their own decision to literally. Attack. Happiness.

"So," Mark commented as he rezipped the bag. "I was thinking."

"And that would be what got us into this. Spare me."

Mark bit the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry. I get cranky when faced with the possibility of hospitalization and/or imprisonment looming in my immediate future. What is it?"

"I was thinking, once we get the footage of them buying what they think are explosives, we should maybe go straight to the cops instead of the head teacher."

"You think Mr. Vincent—" The head teacher. "—'ll not believe us, even with video proof?"

"He's fricking racist and nepotist."

"Nepotist's a word?"

"Sure is."

"Damn."

"You do so hate it when I'm right."

"No, I do so hate it when it suddenly occurs to me that we'll have to tell Mum that we've been involved in vigilante sting ops." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah, well. She can only be shocked and appalled for so long."

The doorbell rang and Mark whispered, "Go time. By which I mean, you go hide. And don't forget to hit Record before you take the video."

* * *

 _Sometime last year_

Nobody liked detraining. It was, of course, a necessary tactic to have at the disposal of the U.N.C.L.E.—and it did have the merit of allowing former agents to move on with fairly normal lives afterward—but the disruption in one's life was not insubstantial, so nobody looked upon the policy with much fondness.

Nevertheless, CEA Crane hoped she would be detrained as completely as possible. Self-detraining techniques had only been developed a few years back, and none of the agents who'd been trained in the techniques had yet found it necessary in a real situation in the field, so she wasn't a hundred percent certain that it would be a hundred percent effective.

Nevertheless, she was left with little choice, as the T.H.R.U.S.H. interrogations were getting harsher and no rescue seemed forthcoming. And so, sitting in her grungy little cell, she shifted her jaw until she felt the click, which activated the implants near her ears, which were filled with the high-pitched whirring of the detraining machine. She closed her eyes and pictured the spinning black and white disc, imagined the voice of Dr. Lazarus guiding her through the hypnosis, blanked her mind…

"'Ey, Crane, what you up to? Crane—stop her!"

* * *

 _New York_

 _Monday_

 _T.H.R.U.S.H. office_

"It's Slate, ma'am."

Gervaise Ravel sighed. She'd told Slate not to call her directly unless there was a problem, so it was with some reluctance that she held out a hand for the phone and said as her secretary gave over the device, "Well, let's see what the damn fool has to say. Hello, Slate?"

 _"Hello, ma'am. We waited all afternoon and nobody turned up."_

"Damn fool. Not you, Slate. Actually, yes, you too, but I meant your contact."

 _"I know I wasn't to leave without the money, ma'am, but I have some family affairs I'm to attend and they might suspect something is off if I'm not there."_

"Yes, alright. You may return for now but make sure you keep yourself available. We'll be in touch."

Silence.

"You _will_ keep yourself available. We have a contract."

 _"Yes, ma'am."_

* * *

 _Elsewhere_

 _Gatwick._

 _North Terminal._

 _In the queue at the gate, behind a British businessman and an elderly couple who sound to be from the American South._

 _It's too familiar. Too much so to be real, but this always happens before he takes a flight in real life and there's not a lot he can do about it so he sighs to himself and gets on with it._

 _"First time traveling alone, lad?" the airline worker asks once it's his turn._

 _"Not at all, madam," he replies, since that's what he said when this actually happened and he worries that going off script might prolong this whole process or somehow make it even more unpleasant._

 _"Old hand at it, eh?" She hands back his ticket. "There you are, love. Have a good flight."_

 _"Thank you," he says, walking down the tunnel into the plane and withholding a grimace as he approaches his seat. Somehow it's worse now that he knows not only when, but also why it's going to happen. He thinks being armed with this knowledge should make it easier, but his clenching stomach and tensing shoulders are making a strong counterargument so his brain concedes the point._

 _"Why, hello there, neighbor," the lady already seated in the chair beside his smiles at him, and this time he knows this is Dr. Egret, even if she is in the guise of what seems to be a ninety-something-year-old Alabaman or Mississippian or whatever-it-is she's going for._

 _He briefly considers spitting in her face, but again opts against rocking the boat and instead recites, "Good day," as he sits. He nods when Dr. Egret's alleged husband smiles politely in his direction. He fastens his seatbelt and fidgets a bit and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, which is easy enough to carry on with, given what he's anticipating._

 _Time passes and he isn't sure whether it actually is two hours, but it certainly feels at least that long. In any case, Dr. Egret gives an emphatic shudder and Illya represses a sudden, near-uncontrollable urge to strangle her with the travel pillow round her neck. The puffiness would probably make that a difficult enterprise, but he would be more than willing to rip out what he could of the fluffy innards and have a go at it anyway._

 _"Is something wrong, madam?" he dutifully inquires as the pseudo-husband snores at a volume rivalling that of the plane engines._

 _"Oh, yes, thank you, just a chill."_

 _He would listen for it this time._

" _I should have listened to my friend Martha."_

 _Maybe he'll notice the change in the sound of her voice, now that he knows what is going on._

" _She told me to bundle up, but I guess I didn't do enough for Jack Frost today."_

 _Maybe a bit. Just a slight change in the pitch, a marginally different inflection. Of course, he might be imagining it._

 _And of course, there is actually no "might" about it: all of this is in his head._

 _And of course, that doesn't make a lick of difference when his chest is seizing up and the plane feels as if it's gone into a tailspin. Or when his vision is flashing and Dr. Egret is asking, "Are you alright, dearie?" and the last syllable rings out, rising in pitch until it seems capable of shattering his eardrums._

 _ **EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**_

 _At least this will be over soon._

 _ **IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII**_

 _Maybe even before he goes completely deaf._

 _ **ILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL**_

 _That would be nice._

 _ **ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL ILL**_

 _Yes, sometime prior to his brain exploding would be lovely._

 _ **ILLYA ILLYA ILLYA—**_

"Illya, time to rise, sunshine."

Illya's eyes snapped open and he decided that the ceiling had never looked more beautiful. Except for that one hole which Napoleon had said formerly held a screw which formerly held up a model airplane, but Illya was willing to overlook that imperfection for the time being. Even if it was a hideous eyesore.

He glanced around to make sure he was really in the waking world, eventually fixing his gaze on Napoleon, whose brows furrowed as the American took in the sweat and odd expression on the Russian's face.

"Bad dream?" Solo prompted, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Bad memory." Kuryakin frowned at Napoleon's frown and sat up. "You should be happy. That means I am more pleased to see you than I would normally be." He leaned in close—close—closer—until Napoleon read and acted upon the silent request. Some indeterminate amount of time later, he withdrew from the kiss to smile at Napoleon's significantly less worried face.

Napoleon quirked a returning grin, started to move back in, and then pulled back again abruptly. "Goldarn it, we don't have time. We've got places to do, things to go—I mean—"

Illya combed a few fingers through the brown hair, realizing it was slightly damp.

Shower.

He'd showered already.

And, now that more of his brainpower was coming online, Kuryakin further assessed that Solo was fully dressed for the day.

Illya jerked around, grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and found _4:12 a.m._ displayed on the screen.

"I shut off the alarm and figured I'd let you sleep a little longer while I made myself presentable," Napoleon explained. "We still have plenty of time before our ride arrives—"

"You said we don't have time."

"We have enough for personal hygiene and food, not for passionate necking. My time management skills leave something to be desired."

"Yes, you must work on that."

Napoleon ruffled the blond hair. "Bathe thyself, stinky. Ms. Khan was nice enough to offer her services, so we shouldn't hold her up."

* * *

"Parking anywhere around here should be fine," April said to Mr. Waverly's secretary as they turned onto West 81st Street. "I'll text them that we're here."

A couple of minutes later, Napoleon got in first with his rolling carryon bag and his gun case: Mark would be the only one flashing his U.N.C.L.E. identification on the flight out, so Solo and Dancer had to make like ordinary civilians and check their weapons at the airport. Illya, who hadn't yet been issued a weapon, followed with one small duffel bag, which he used to nudge Napoleon over when the American initially paused at the middle seat instead of proceeding directly to the spot behind Ms. Khan.

"Thanks again for driving us," Napoleon offered as he buckled in.

"Not at all," Ms. Khan smiled back. "I just feel bad we have to leave Mark to his own devices, since we can't have the same car dropping off you and him at the same terminal when you're not supposed to act like you know him until you get to London."

"If it'll make you feel any better, I'm sure he'll have a grand old time sashaying on past Security with his U.N.C.L.E. ID while the rest of us have our persons intruded upon by TSA. And getting to be Mr. Manly Man with the gun, looking out for me and Illya on the flight."

Not long after that, the front row and the back row each split into their own conversation zones. About halfway to the airport, April glanced to the backseat and smiled to herself.

 _"So what makes him different?" she asked, once Mark had left their office to escort Illya back to the university._

 _"How do you mean?"_

 _"What's keeping you in a legit relationship with no sex instead of returning to your freewheeling ways?"_

 _"It's great when people assume I'm some kind of sex maniac."_

 _April propped her chin on one hand and screwed her mouth to one side._

 _"Geez, really?"_

 _"The track record for your personal life doesn't really allow for a wide range of interpretations, pal."_

 _"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But to answer your question stemming from your entirely unjustified view of my social behaviors, I guess it's because I've never met anyone like him before. It's… it's exhilarating."_

 _April tilted her head to the other side. "I think the last time you called something exhilarating was when we skydived from a helicopter for a training assignment last summer."_

 _"That's what it's like."_

 _She frowned. "Five minutes of abject terror?"_

 _"That's what she said—and I instantly regret that on multiple levels." Napoleon politely extended his arm and waited for April to smack him on the hand before continuing. "What I mean is, it's like a mission."_

 _"A series of short-term, highly specific tasks intended to be executed without becoming emotionally invested in anyone involved?"_

 _Napoleon stared for a few moments. "No, I—no. I meant in the sense that he keeps me on my toes. And I have a sense of purpose. I—well, I think he kind of needs me."_

 _"And when you're settled?"_

 _"Settled?"_

 _"When his quirks don't surprise you anymore. When you eventually do sleep with him and the mystery is gone. If, when you go on assignments, you find that he doesn't need you as much as you think."_

 _"Miss Dancer, I am absolutely shocked that a perfectly intelligent person like you can manage to entirely miss the most important part."_

 _"Which is…?"_

" _I'm emotionally invested in the person involved."_

And as the dark and light heads bent together to talk quietly, Napoleon's arm across the back of the seat to occasionally play with Illya's hair, she could believe Solo's statement. The American seemed to have devoted all his attention to whatever the Russian was saying, and his smile as he listened was a sincere one, not the indulgent version he wore when he paid attention to get something he wanted.

For Illya's part, while the blond stopped short of smiling, the set of his face was more relaxed than when he talked to other people and holding eye contact with Napoleon seemed to come more naturally than with anyone else. So maybe he did need Solo. Or at least did better around the brunet. And—

—and she had completely dropped her end of the conversation with Ms. Khan, who smiled as she registered April's _oh crap_ expression and asked, "Finished spacing out?"

"Yeah, sorry," Dancer said sheepishly.

Khan flicked her eyes to the rear. "Out of curiosity, are they together?"

"Yes, they are," returned Kuryakin's voice crisply, "for the week, at least. Ah, Terminal 7. I hope your flight is pleasantly uneventful, April."

Napoleon followed suit in bidding April a safe trip and then chatted with Ms. Khan until they reached Terminal 4. Once they'd alighted from the car, Napoleon touched a hand to Illya's elbow: a test for how receptive the Russian might be to having an arm around him.

Instead of one of the usual two outcomes (being ignored or being smiled at) Illya pressed a hand of his own to the back of Napoleon's shoulder and the American went along with the pressure that steered him off to one side, turning around once he reached the exterior wall of the terminal as he assumed that the goal was not for him to nose-plant into the thing.

"You were—" Illya paused as if it hurt to get the word out and pressed Napoleon's shoulder into the wall as if to compel Solo to share in his discomfort. "—right."

Napoleon had never felt less smug about being told that. "Which specific instance of my rightness are we discussing?"

"At the apartment the other day and regarding our conversation in the car. I… could put more effort into being open."

"I can't recall ever saying that."

"You are too well-mannered to make the accusation directly."

Solo had a different opinion on that matter: if he thought Kuryakin wasn't doing the best he could, that would definitely have been a topic of conversation by now. Still, if this misperception was prompting Illya to open up more, he wasn't about to disillusion the guy. Napoleon made a noncommittal sound and kept his mouth shut.

"Dr. Boateng has suggested that there may be some merit in your joining us for a session. If convenient for you."

Based on Illya's steadily-tightening grip on him, Napoleon went with, "Do you _want_ me to join you?"

"Not in every sense of the word, but I believe it is important that you do." Illya abruptly released his grip when he realized (based on a grimace from Napoleon) that his clenching hand was inflicting some pain, and he stared at the offending hand for a moment before ramming it into his pocket. "I would… appreciate your presence, if not inconvenient."

"For you, it could never be an inconvenience."

"Withhold that judgement until you've spoken with Dr. Boateng."

"I mean it. And I consider it an honor that you would trust me with this."

Illya muttered something under his breath that did not sound to be in English, turned away, turned back just long enough to shoot out, "Thank you," and resumed his progress to the inside of the terminal.

Napoleon grinned and followed as they went in to check in themselves and his gun case. While Solo found he felt a bit empty without his weapon, it was more the issue of the security line that irked him: specifically, the part where he anticipated how Slate would boast about his queue-jumping privileges without letting on to outside parties that he and Solo were acquainted. He had a sneaking suspicion it would have something to do with an obscene gesture that Mark had oh-so-conveniently taught him the day they learned of their travel arrangements.

In the queue, Mark cast a casual look backward, the illusion of innocence broken briefly by a scratch to the side of his nose, which he just happened to execute with his thumb and index finger extended: L for 'loser'. Then V for… well, Napoleon wasn't sure what it stood for, but it sure bore a resemblance to that obscene gesture he just happened to have learned recently.

Short of testing how far and true he could aim his spitting—sadly an unnecessarily risky tactic for the time being—there wasn't much Solo could do in retaliation just then. And so he returned his attention to his boyfriend and, for the week, fiancé.

Black beanie.

Black turtleneck.

Black bomber jacket.

Black skinny jeans.

Black duffel back over one shoulder.

Turning around to say something, then realizing that the American was already eying him and opting instead to raise a questioning brow.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "You, uh, look like a cat burglar." And also really hot, but for now he preferred not to examine why he was linking the two.

Illya's gaze flicked down briefly over the American's outfit. Button-up plaid shirt. Khaki pants. Red-checkered coat laid over his rolling carry-on. "You look like a lumberjack."

"And I'm okay. With that." He pressed a guiding hand to the black-clad back to urge the Russian forward and close a bit of the gap developing between them and the person ahead in line. When Illya moved about half the distance he'd been hoping for and stopped with a quick backward glare, he was reminded of the ride to the airport, during which he'd unsuccessfully endeavored to coax the blond into explaining why he disliked air travel.

Well, it wasn't completely a failure, as Illya had spent a fair chunk of the drive teaching him endearments in Russian and Ukrainian. Besides being a good time for Solo, it revealed just how much Kuryakin did not want to discuss the matter: it seemed rather a desperate ploy for him to resort to arming Napoleon with new words of a romantic variety. (The diminutive forms of words for cute little animals were definitely going to get some play in the future, undoubtedly to the younger man's eternal regret.)

This trip, Solo also had the advantage of being more familiar with the Russian's body language, and Kuryakin had the (mis?)fortune of not being distracted by being miserably ill. Between the two, Illya was aware of his surroundings and Napoleon was aware that Illya was not thrilled with those surroundings.

The hands shoved deep in pockets.

The sullen, watchful gaze slowly scanning from left to right and back again.

The repeated rolling of tense shoulders.

Solo eased the pressure he was exerting with his hand, transforming it into a light massage that seemed to lengthen the intervals between shoulder rolls and reduce the danger of Kuryakin's fingernails puncturing the insides of his pockets throughout their rousing adventure through airport security.

Once they'd been seated to wait at their gate for a few minutes—Illya working away at his computer and Napoleon flipping through a magazine someone had left behind—Napoleon resumed his earlier massage at the first hint of a rising shoulder, until Illya looked up from his laptop to remark, "You are rather… touchy-feely today."

Napoleon glanced around furtively before leaning in close to say in an exaggerated whisper, "All a part of my super-secret spy cover." He winked as he drew back.

Illya cocked his head and held the brown gaze long enough that Napoleon started getting a bit uneasy, but then the Russian took his face in both hands and gently pulled it in for a chaste but lingering kiss. Taking in the American's slack-jawed expression as they parted, he whispered, "My superior secret spy cover," and returned the wink.

"Maybe we should explore the possibility of employing role-play on a more regular basis."

Illya smiled vaguely and turned his attention back to his laptop, and that relative lack of a response suggested to Napoleon that his intended innuendo hadn't been entirely understood. He accordingly sighed in mock exasperation, "Ah, my pure heart."

"Did you say something blisteringly witty and presumably inappropriate that I failed to appreciate?" Illya wondered mildly, tapping away at the keys.

"Yes."

"Pity."

* * *

 _Somewhere in France_

"I did what you said but nobody showed."

 _"Damn fool, you were too slow. The party you were to meet had a train to catch."_

"What I'm hearing is, I can have another shot if I hop a train."

 _"I think your ears need to be cleaned out, but fine. I did get rather attached to the idea of your doing this little favor for me. Go to England. Marlborough. Wednesday afternoon on the high street. Remember: look for the man—"_

"Wearing a red coat and with a blonde."

 _"Codeword—"_

"Codeword: William Shakespeare. Response: Francis Bacon."

 _"I don't like your attitude."_

"Like I'm crazy about yours, lady."

 _"My attitude keeps me in control of you. Yours will get you in trouble with me. You better just hope you don't bungle this again because, with that attitude, this is your last chance."_

* * *

 _In-flight_

Illya opened his eyes upon feeling something prod at his shoulder, glancing to the side to find Napoleon grinning at him. He sighed quietly and, removing his headphones, commented, "You will never learn, will you?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Why are you disturbing me?"

"Got you an engagement gift."

Illya frowned at the clamshell box being drawn from Napoleon's carryon case and the American simply smiled in return, as he knew the Russian wouldn't be able to protest as effectively as he'd like.

Solo held the cube in front of Kuryakin. "Happy betrothal."

Illya folded his arms over his chest. "I did not get you anything and your birthday is not for another month and I have no intention of giving you anything until then."

"That's fine. You've already given me your heart, and that's more than enough." He gave the box a light shake.

Illya harrumphed quietly and plucked the thing from Napoleon's hand. Rather than opening it immediately, he held it up in front of the other's nose and said, "I accept it on one condition. _Francis_."

"Anything, my true heart."

"Once we are… married… I will manage our finances."

"I shudder at the prospect of a fiscally responsible future, but okay."

Illya flashed a grin. Since the box was unwrapped, he simply flipped back the lid to see the silver-colored watch nestled within, then clenched his jaw as he took in the fancy-looking logo on the inside of the box. "Perhaps I should manage them starting immediately."

Napoleon leaned in to gesture at the watch with, "It's engraved."

A blue glare. "You are not helping."

Solo kissed the tip of his nose.

"That is marginally helpful."

"Hmm, I wonder what would be extremely helpful…"

Illya pushed the approaching face away and took out the watch, flipping it over to read the engraving, then flipping it over again and replacing it as his ears went pink.

Before the blond could clap the lid shut, Napoleon asked, "What's it say?"

"I should hope you knew—no. It would be better if you did not. Then I could rest assured that you found this at a significant discount in a secondhand shop."

"I told them what to put, but I want to make sure they got it right." And based on Illya's developing coloration in response to what was supposed to be a rather tame and familiar sentiment, some kind of screw-up did not seem entirely beyond the realm of possibility.

Illya handed over the watch and clamped one hand over Napoleon's mouth in a warning not to read it aloud. Solo kissed the constricting palm and it promptly withdrew, but the American took in the inscription silently: one word per line in Cyrillic, followed by the date that they met. They looked like the appropriate characters as far as he could recall but…

Napoleon leaned on the shared armrest to whisper as quietly as possible in his ear, "It says, ' _Ya tebe lyublyu_ ', right?"

Two quick nods.

Good, right message: Ukrainian for ' _I love you_ '.

He continued at a low volume, "And I mean it. You know that, don't you?" Napoleon reached as if to put the watch on the other's wrist, but Illya deftly slipped the object from his hands and fastened it himself. As Illya rotated his hand and frowned at the gap between the watchband and his wrist despite the thing being at its tightest setting, Napoleon added, "You'll fill it out soon enough. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong with having a dandy bracelet."

One side of Illya's mouth twitched. "Of the two of us, I'd say you are more the dandy."

"More the randy, at least, my dear heart."

Now both corners of his mouth dropped, and he used a pinky to feel the engraving on the underside of the watch face, commenting, "Your pronunciation was terrible, by the way. It is ' _ya tebe lyublyu_ ', not ' _yeti babalu_ '."

"I don't mind practicing. _Ya table 'aloo_ , _yada balsa blue_ —"

"Your attempts at a comedic deterioration are not successful."

" _Yet a vindaloo_ , _yenta ballyhoo_ —was that a smile, my brave heart?"

"A sneer."

"I'll take it."

Illya capitulated with a backhanded swat to Napoleon's shoulder and the demonstration of a full smile. " _Vyrodok_."

"Can I assume that means 'a strikingly handsome man'?"

He almost made the correction ("It means 'moron', but I mean it in affectionate manner.") but ultimately decided on: "You can assume whatever you like." Illya raised a brow when Napoleon reached over. "For your edification, however, it does not mean, 'please grab my wrist'."

"Time," Napoleon said simply, releasing the wrist and bending over to the carryon stored under the seat for a few moments before returning with one of Illya's antidepressants and a small snack to be taken with it. "We'll keep the watch on New York time," he said as Illya begrudgingly scoffed a few almonds with the pill. "As god is my witness, you'll never get off-schedule again—ah-ah-ah, show me."

Blue eyes flicked upward, but Illya obligingly opened his mouth and moved his tongue around to show the medicine had gone where it was supposed to.

"Hey, I'd trust you to take it but you're the one who said I shouldn't."

"Yes. Damn my forthcoming nature."

"Sorry to disturb if you didn't want to talk to no one," a gravelly voice asserted, and Napoleon turned to the row-mate on his other side: a sturdily-built older man with the appearance of a former boxer.

Illya bit the inside of his cheek. While the general public's reaction to their occasional hand-holding and even rarer public kisses had thus far ranged from indifference to smiles, he was still perpetually bracing himself for negative reactions despite Napoleon's regular reminders about people who minded and people who mattered.

"I'm a bachelor myself," the cap-wearing man went on, "but it always warms my heart when I hear about folks finding someone special. Congratulations."

Napoleon nudged Illya's foot with his own, as if he'd sensed the younger man's tension and was saying, _See, it's fine!_ , as he offered to the stranger, "That's very nice of you to say. Thank you."

"No problem." The man looked past Napoleon to smile at the rather stiff Illya. "I know I don't look it, but I'm a real sucker for a love story and, livin' in New York, it's like I get to share in a little bit of lots of people's happiness." He offered his hand to the brunet. "Max, by the way."

"I'm Francis," Napoleon returned, shaking the hand, "and this bright young thing is Ilia."

Illya glowered at his partner. "If you call me that again, we are calling it off."

"Aw, don't sully Max's idealistic vision of romance, my tender heart."

Illya suppressed a sigh. He'd taken Napoleon's sudden barrage of new pet names as part of his alleged cover, but really: "I do wish you'd settle on one before it devolves further."

"Whatever do you mean, my achy breaky heart?"

Not seeming perturbed, Max simply offered his hand for Illya to shake as well and asked, "Are you guys from New York, or just flyin' out from there?"

Napoleon nudged Illya's foot again, this time to signal the need for caution: while Max's striking up a conversation was, in all likelihood, a simple matter of friendliness, there was still a non-zero possibility of the stranger having questionable connections.

"Well, obviously you're not _from_ New York," Max continued with a glance to Illya, "but do you live there, I mean?"

"We surely do," Napoleon supplied. "Neither of us is a native New Yorker, but it's home now. A friend of ours has a home in England, so we thought we'd take advantage of their hospitality and have a little trip to celebrate getting engaged."

"I bet it's a swell place to have a vacation. Me, I'm traveling for work. I'm sort of in project management, see, and my boss, Miss Ravel, has an operation goin' on in England, so I'm supposed to check in and make sure everything's hunky-dory."

"Ravel, huh? What a coincidence!" Napoleon exclaimed, and Illya glanced at him in surprise, silently wondering if the American was essentially about to reveal their home address. Not that Max's Miss Ravel was definitely their own Miss Ravel, but they couldn't rule out the prospect. "Ilia here had a whole Maurice Ravel phase not too long ago. I don't suppose your Miss Ravel is a descendant."

"Afraid I wouldn't know that, Francis. Miss R doesn't exactly encourage the asking of personal questions. Not a real friendly lady, Miss R, but she pays okay, and an old high school dropout like me can't get picky about that kinda thing, see? Especially seeing as I'm not in primo condition like I used to be, physical-wise."

Napoleon nodded sympathetically. "On the bright side, though, it seems there's some interesting aspects to the work. Travel and all."

"This is my first real trip for work, although Miss R did say there might be more if I do good." He looked past Solo. "Say, where do you come from, Ilia? Originally, I mean. I'm usually pretty good at pegging accents but I couldn't catch yours."

"I am Ukrainian. I affect an English pronunciation, however, as my original accent served only to draw more than my share of 'Russian hacker' jokes."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows as if to ask if that was really a thing the Russian had dealt with, and Illya's long-suffering eyeroll provided a clear enough answer.

"That's lousy. Damn Russians, eh?" Max remarked, grinning to ensure his lighthearted intention was recognized. "Are you a Ukrainian hacker?"

"I am a physics lecturer."

"Wow, a real cerebral type, huh? How about you, Francis?"

Napoleon shook his head, choosing to ignore that Illya (or at least Ilia—hopefully just Ilia) felt the need to snort at Max's question. "No, I'm more the showbiz type. I'm an associate producer."

"Theater or what?"

"TV. Daytime talk."

"He aspires to be a musical theater associate producer," Illya contributed, and Napoleon decided that the blond was having too much fun all of a sudden. The brunet accordingly shot him a withering look and received a blinding smile in return.

"Hey, that's neat," Max said, then frowned slightly. "Say, what does a producer do, exactly?"

"Avert disasters, mostly," was Napoleon's summary.

"Sounds like my job."

"Small world," Napoleon chuckled. "What kind of company is it, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Mining equipment. Sales mostly, although Miss R also has a hand in other parts of it. Me, I make sure we're getting paid and the clients are all happy, and sometimes I hang around when the businessfolk are dealin' with the environment people. I don't got that sleazy-businessman vibe about me, I guess, so Miss R thinks havin' me around helps lighten the mood a little. It usually works, once everyone gets past my external appearance."

"I'm sure it does. You've certainly put us at our ease, Max."

"That's good to hear, 'cause I gotta be top-form on this one. Usually it's only the environment people with some government I got to help with, but this time it's also one of them students-and-citizens groups. They're the real tough ones to deal with. Always feel bad for those guys."

* * *

 _England_

 _University of Reading_

Arthur Slate had come to a decision recently—very recently—earlier that very day, in fact—and that decision was that exposure therapy was highly overrated. No matter how many times he ditched class—often—quite often—earlier that very day, in fact—he still dreaded being glared at by the lecturer.

It wasn't a good time for anyone involved, as he was sure the lecturer felt rather disrespected and, for his own part, he felt like crap.

And the person responsible for this general unhappiness wasn't about to be getting away unscathed as far as Art was concerned, so he fixed an appropriately irritated expression to his face and held it until his sister appeared in his phone's video-chat app.

"Alright, Cyn, I've let my intellectual expansion go to hell, at your request."

 _"Are you somewhere you can talk?"_

"No, I ditched lecture and rang you somewhere I couldn't talk."

 _"Good. Now. What the fuck? I thought we were s'posed to collect their filthy bribe money over the weekend. Or at least be told where to collect their filthy bribe money over the weekend."_

"Yes, but our contact texted me that _their_ contact's not got the cash to them yet."

Cynthia scoffed, tossing her freshly platinum-blond hair out of her face. _"What kind of stinking, filthy, greedy, money-grubbing ass-hats are they? Can't get the cash together? Fucking fail, man."_

"I asked them that. Like, more polite, but same idea, yeah? They said they were blackmailing somebody and were to use the blackmail money to pay us."

Cynthia's jaw went slack.

"Yeah."

 _"Were they serious, you think?"_

"Text doesn't translate sarcasm so well, so I couldn't say. Whatever way it is, they said they'd be in touch. Deal's still on. Hopefully they can do a weekend so I'll not have to ditch. Again. As I'm doing for you. Again."

 _"Don't worry your nerdy head. I'm sure having 'uncovering corporate corruption' on your résumé will compensate for a slightly dented academic record. Assuming they don't mind the questionable legality of the means through _which said corruption was demonstrated."__

"One certainly can dream, can't one?"

* * *

 _Late evening_

 _En route from U.N.C.L.E.-London to Marlborough_

Time certainly flew when you yourself were flying. Between time spent on air travel and losing about five hours from zipping across time zones, pretty much the whole day was shot and, in some ways, it seemed they'd made very little progress: they'd driven in the dark to the airport, and now they were driving in the dark from the airport.

Now, of course, it was Mark Slate rather than Ms. Khan behind the wheel, and the wheel was on the other side of the car, and the car was on the other side of the road, and the road was on the other side of the world—

So okay, fine, they'd actually made plenty of progress. The point was: car.

In a car.

After having been in a plane for six-odd hours.

After having been in another car for almost an hour.

And the entire journey had been in the dark of night and the clouds of day.

And one rather restless Solo was starting to hold one rather insultingly cheerful Slate personally responsible for having family in England rather than Jamaica.

Or Costa Rica.

Belize.

Florida.

That one spot of ocean they'd flown over that had been privileged to a delightful break in the clouds.

Solo shook his head at himself. Enough of the negative.

Mark was delighted out of his gourd, to the point that Napoleon thought the roadside _"Tiredness kills; Take a break"_ sign should have been replaced by one along the lines of _"Enthusiastically bobbing your head to every song on the radio because you're so deliriously happy kills; Chill."_

April was also in a good mood, based on her level of multitasking: keeping up a rapid back-and-forth with Mark, while monitoring their progress on the map on her phone, while texting a photo of every vaguely British thing they passed to her mother—and a busy April was a happy April.

Illya… well, Napoleon couldn't get a read on his exact mood, but that pensive expression was generally indicative of something between _meh_ and _pretty good_ , so that was fine. Then the blond head tilted a bit to better peer through the windshield, and Illya reached over to tap at the side of Napoleon's leg with one finger. Napoleon accordingly wove their fingers together and the Russian's lips tilted up.

Okay, _pretty good_ then. Solo applauded himself for the progress he'd made in assessing the Kuryakin's expressions, but he kept his self-congratulation on the tepid side. For all that he seemed to have succeeded in winning the Russian's affection, Napoleon found himself wondering about his own intentions.

The endgame.

April's suggestion that he, while sincere, was in over his head. (Which was true.)

Mom's idea they were on the verge of a lifetime commitment. (Which had been a rather startling opinion but, even more startlingly, hadn't been an instinctively gut-twisting prospect.)

Illya's overall satisfaction with the way things were going. (Which was great for the here and now, but didn't provide much guidance regarding the future trajectory of their relationship.)

Still, Napoleon occasionally got the impression that he was causing more stress to the younger man than he was relieving.

And it would be nice if the Russian could eventually say, _I love you_.

And sometimes he couldn't help but wonder how they would be affected as the end of the semester brought on inevitable changes: the assignment to monitor Illya was slated to end then, and Kuryakin would spend the better part of the summer away at various U.N.C.L.E. training sessions while Solo would regularly be sent on missions.

Illya had suggested that his relationship with his parents might have suffered from a lack of regular interaction and, while the pair had made it through Napoleon's jaunt to Brazil, that was last time. And there would be a lot of next times ahead—

But that was starting to get into the negative again. And right now, all was well. Everyone was safe and in high spirits. If he was still nervous about the durability of his relationship with Illya by the time they returned to New York, he could bring it up when they went for a joint session with Dr. Boateng and they'd get it figured out.

Everything was going to be okay, Napoleon decided with a nod to himself. Things were fine as they were, and in the meantime he'd figure out the endgame and, once he'd wrapped his head around that, he'd make it happen.

"Did you want something?"

Napoleon blinked as he realized Illya had caught him absent-mindedly staring at him.

"Uh, no, I—your hair's getting a little long."

Illya did not look entirely convinced by that offering but rejoined, "If it disturbs you so much, I can give myself a trim once we arrive."

Napoleon shook his head. "I was making an observation, not a criticism."

"Then why were you looking at me?"

"I was just thinking that I'm going to miss you."

Illya took a moment before he made a sound of comprehension. "For the most part, it will only be for a few weeks at a time, assuming I am not killed in a training accident and you do not get yourself assassinated."

"I know. I'll miss not seeing you every day, though."

"You have managed previously to muddle through life without seeing me any day, and I expect you will be too busy to spend an appreciable amount of your time pining." Illya glanced to the front row to confirm that Mark and April were still preoccupied with their own conversation, then leaned closer to add softly, "And I… expect I will miss you, too. When I am not otherwise occupied." He jolted back to a more upright position at a wordless exclamation from the driver's seat.

"Christ, this is so British Countryside I think I might puke a union jack," Mark asserted cheerfully as they drove down a narrow street, small brick buildings scattered to the left and trees interspersed with fields on the right.

"What happens if a car wants to come from the opposite direction?" April wondered.

"We fall into a blind hysterical panic. Or pull to one side to let the other party by."

"Good. Keep that in mind, 'cause I think this is one-way and we're going the wrong way."

"You told me to go here!"

"Yeah, I sure screwed up, didn't I? Anyway, as our official Englishman, shouldn't you have some innate instinct regarding how to tell what's a one-way street?"

"It's bleeding dark out here and I'm a city boy." He went on, pitch rising melodramatically. "I have no English Country instincts. I know fuck-all about country lanes. I started breaking out in hives when we passed a thatched roof. I'm falling into a blind hysterical panic, mate!" He coughed. "God, that's hard on the vocal cords. Seriously, though, please tell me we're close."

April glanced at the map she had opened on her phone. "There's the turnoff. At Whatever-it-says Nurseries."

"Okee-dokee—hey, there's my mum!" Mark beeped the horn at the woman in the driveway of a boxy two-story house, proceeding slowly until the vehicle was in a decent position. "Hi, Mum!" He unlocked the doors and laughed when his mother didn't automatically move aside. "Mum, get out the way!"

Mark's mother smiled a quick greeting to the others as they emerged, and she stepped away from the driver's door long enough to let Mark out so she could glomp him. "Ah, Mark, my first-born, my prodigal son, the primary cause of my future heart troubles! We were so disappointed when you said you might not come—such a relief to have you here now."

Constance gave him one last squeeze before proceeding to the passenger side. "And—" She paused for the briefest of moments to recalibrate the name she was supposed to associate with the person, then moved in to hug April. "—Jennifer, gorgeous as always, pet."

"Nice of you to notice, Constance. These guys seriously underappreciate that. It's almost as if they like me for my beautiful mind instead of my looks."

Napoleon gave April a couple of pats on the cheek and, "I'd be happy to objectify you anytime, sweetheart."

She returned the pats and, "I know you would, boo."

Constance gave Napoleon a hug as well. "Francis, so nice to see you."

"Ever a pleasure, Constance."

"And you must be Ilia—oh, but look at me keeping you all standing out here! Here, let's get you inside and then we can talk."

Constance ushered them all inside and then rather suspiciously faded back a bit. The second the front door shut behind them—

"Newman!" a voice exclaimed, and a curly-haired blur flashed by to tackle Mark, who narrowly avoided a tumble to the ground as he returned the greeting with, "Redford!" before proceeding to half-dodge and half-participate in the impromptu sparring match, protesting, "We're too old for it, boyo! You're embarrassing me in front of my friends!"

"My evil plan is working!"

'Redford' continued play-fighting Mark further into the house, until he was conveniently backed up to a couch so a young lady could jump up and blow a plastic horn directly behind Mark's head, which whipped around to exclaim at the buzzing sound, "Mary, mother of Jesus, are you _trying_ to kill me?"

She stopped the noise long enough to say, "Only if you don't give," then resumed the audio attack. Mark groaned and dropped onto the sofa, which seemed to be a signal of surrender as the girl stopped blowing her horn and she and Redford plopped down either side of Mark.

"Why the hell do you still have a fecking vuvuzela?" Mark groused, snatching the thing from the girl.

"I keep it 'round for special purposes."

"Met any nice boys?"

"No."

"Any bad boys you need me to rough up?"

"No."

Mark leaned to the boy on his other side. "Met any nice girls?"

"Nah."

"Any bad girls you need me to rough up?"

"Nah."

"Good, noses to the grindstones." He patted each sibling on the knee and hopped up to gesture with the vuvuzela toward the entrance. "You chuckleheads remember Francis and Jennifer, and the new kid is Ilia. He may seem a bit grumpy at first, but we're onto 'im: he's a lamb. Ilia, this is Art—" Mark held the vuvuzela above the appropriate head. "—Cyn—" He repeated the action on his sister. "—and our mummy dearest, but you can call her Constance."

Illya nodded at each member of the family in turn and considered whether it would be rude for his first comment to be that he didn't notice much of a family resemblance aside from that between Mark and Constance. The platinum-blond Cynthia had noticeably rounder features both in face and figure, and Arthur's olive skin and dark brown curls were similarly dissimilar. Fortunately for him, Arthur seemed to see the thus-far-unasked question coming and took the matter of asking out of his hands.

"Mark's the only one related to Mum by blood." Art affected a saccharine expression and wrapped his sister in an embrace. "But we're all related by love."

Cynthia produced a tissue from her pocket and put it to her nose with an impressively loud honk before returning the clean material to its original place. "It's so touching," she choked out through phony tears.

Mark snorted. "Yeah. What's touching is we like Cyn enough to not murder her for keeping a fricking vuvuzela. Seriously, though, how do you still have this?"

"We found it in a carton when we were moving house."

"And how has Art not bludgeoned you over the head with it by now?"

"He said he'd not if I promised only to use it on you."

Vuvuzela-holding hand on his hip, Mark turned to face his brother, who grinned at the glare: "Come on, Newman'd not strangle Redford, would he?"

"Redford never give Newman's sister permission to attack him with a vuvuzela." He turned back again to shake the horn at his sister. "This stays in my custody for the week, missy."

Cynthia smirked. "I have another."

"God save us."

"God save _him_." Cynthia pointed at Napoleon.

Solo ran a finger under his collar. "Uh… beg pardon, my dear Cyn?"

"Well, I'll withhold judgement for a second." She gestured between him and Illya. "Are you actually engaged, or is that part of your cover?"

"We're together," the American said and, "We are not engaged," the Russian stated flatly, and Constance gasped a bit. She explained her reaction with, "I'd not even thought that it was part of the cover! The guest room's only got the one bed in, I'm afraid."

"That's alright," April chimed in. "They're used to sharing a conjugal bed."

Illya frowned. "Yes, but you can rest assured, madam, that we will not…." He glanced to the side for a moment, then half-guessed, "Conjugate."

Napoleon coughed to cover a laugh, and Constance smiled, "Well, if you should change your mind, pet, just bring the sheets down in the morning so they can have a wash."

"So you _are_ an item then," Cynthia concluded, gesturing again between the pair. The Napoleon nodded happily so she smiled, "Well, congratulations to you, Ilia, but _you_! Francis Bacon!"

Napoleon gave a start as she propped her hands on her hips and made a production of stomping over.

"Leading me on—I thought you were straight!"

Napoleon gave his collar another tug as Mark shot him the briefest of glares.

Illya blinked placidly at Cyn. "My efforts at proselytization have not been entirely unsuccessful."

As Cynthia kept up her intensely judging look, Napoleon cleared his throat. "Mark, wasn't your uncle supposed to be partaking in this here wagon-welcoming?"

Mark smirked slightly but went with it, asking his mother, "Where's Uncle Ash? I thought I'd be seeing him today."

Constance sighed, shaking her head. "He planned to be here, of course, but business, you know? He has to take what he can get and he won't be back in Swindon until terribly late today, but he promised he'll drop in tomorrow." She turned to her son's companions. "Ashley doesn't know about your, um, 'company', in case Mark's not told you…"

"In a striking instance of irony," Mark parenthesized.

"…but he knows some of Mark's friends are here. Tomorrow might be the only day he has a chance to visit with us, and he said he'd like to meet you all, if you'd not mind taking a bit of time out of your holiday."

April nodded agreeably. "We might as well have tomorrow be a slow day, anyway. Hang around here to adjust to the time difference."

"Yes, and speaking of here," Illya put in, "it was most kind of you to extend your hospitality to us, ma'am."

"Not at all," Constance beamed. "Any friend of Mark's—and having guests gives me an excuse to show off the house. Come, let's get you all settled."

* * *

 _Swindon_

"I'm starting to think it may be best if I cut ties."

Crane shot Ashley Slate a look. The man was nice enough, she was sure: he had _hapless, down-on-his-luck man who'd fallen into a bad situation_ written all over him. Like many other hapless, down-on-his-luck men she had vague recollections of, however, he also had an annoying tendency to talk. A lot. One might say too much.

"Not with Ms. Ravel. Believe me, I've tried that and I know it'll not be happening anytime soon. I meant with my family. Cut off from them before Ravel gets the idea to catch them up in any of this."

Crane shrugged. Sometimes cutting out the family worked out. Sometimes it didn't. Either way, not her problem.

"I'm telling you this because I was hoping you might have some suggestions or could help me. Ms. Ravel says you've been well deep into undercover things."

"Ms. Ravel is a pit viper and you'd do well not to believe a word that drips from her fangs."

Even if that particular set of drips had been correct.

Even though Crane could not recall all the particulars of her own past. Her interrupted effort at self-detraining had succeeded in burying her memories of the most sensitive information, but she had retained some of her spy skillset—which was good in that she was apparently valuable enough to be kept alive, but bad in that Ravel expected Crane to do her bidding.

Ravel, who'd mentioned T.H.R.U.S.H. in a flattering light several times.

T.H.R.U.S.H., which Crane was mostly certain was not a warm, friendly sort of an organization.

Certain, that is, based on her fractured memories and this business about bribing an environmental agency to allow… well, Crane wasn't privy to the details, but bribery to glean a benefit for Ravel was probably not a sign of great and good things.

And it was also not great that she'd been given a dainty little necklace one day and informed politely that it would inject poison into several spots on her neck if she failed to adequately comply with orders.

Ashley arched his brows and smiled humorlessly. "So you do talk."

She shrugged again.

"Does that mean you'll not help me?"

Not sensing a hint of resignation about him, it seemed unlikely that he'd drop the matter all that soon, so she sighed. "It's not rocket science, Slate. Make an ass of yourself. If they buy your bullshit, they won't want anything to do with you. If they don't, say you need some time to yourself and they'll leave you alone for a while. Meantime, you can change your identity so that they can't find you once they think they've left you alone long enough."

"Can you help me with that?"

"With what: changing your identity or working out some assholery?"

"Both." Ashley thought for a moment. "The family's having some company over. Americans, I think. Perhaps it would be easier on me to offend the family indirectly, via the guests."

Crane cracked a few knuckles. "Tell me about them."

* * *

 _Marlborough_

 _Night_

Forty-two, forty-one, forty…

"I hope you didn't mind."

Thirty-seven, thirty-six… Illya shifted his gaze upward, intermittently catching glimpses of the American's face as the brunet sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him as he did his sit-ups.

"I just blurted it right out without thinking."

Thirty-two, thirty-one… "I must have missed something." Twenty-eight, twenty-seven… "Enlighten me as to what offense you are supposed to have committed."

"When Cyn was asking if we were engaged and I said we were together. I forgot to ask if it was okay with you to tell them that."

Twenty-two, twenty-one… "Mark seems reasonably well-acquainted with his family." Fifteen, fourteen… "I trust he'd have warned us of any potentially unpleasant reactions."

"You don't mind, then?"

Ten, nine… "I do not mind." Three, two, one… Illya stood up, adjusted his stance, and started in on the squats. Fifty, forty-nine… "I have to get over it, yes?"

"Well, there are some things one 'gets over' slowly, some things one 'gets over' quickly, and some things one just can't get over. I'm sure this particular thing doesn't fall into the last category, but it wouldn't be great to mix up the first two."

Forty, thirty-nine… "It is not because I am ashamed of you."

Napoleon smiled. "I know."

Thirty, twenty-nine… "Oh. That is good." He finished his evening calisthenics in silence, flicked off the last remaining light in the room—the bedside lamp—and joined Napoleon under the covers. When the American rolled closer and rested an arm over his waist, Illya remarked, "This is not so much smaller than the bed at home that such togetherness is necessary."

Napoleon hummed. "You don't like this?"

"I was merely making an observation."

"Love you."

"I know." Illya blinked at the burst of laughter this prompted, but carried on. "You've been saying that since October, when we hardly knew each other. How could you know now, let alone then?"

"Know that I love you?"

Nod.

"Well, attraction is a part of love. The first time I saw you, I thought you were attractive. So I asked you out and figured we'd have a nice dinner and then, well…." Napoleon coughed delicately. "But I realized pretty early on that the, uh, latter part of that wouldn't be happening."

"Most perceptive of you."

"And as we talked, I also realized you weren't like the other people I'd gone out with."

"Again, quite perceptive."

Napoleon sighed in mock exasperation. "I don't mean just that you're not a girl. I meant that you're… special."

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"Just… I don't know, I started getting sort of a funny feeling."

"Most people would attribute that to indigestion."

"Not that kind of funny feeling."

Illya sighed and turned over to return the one-armed embrace. "You are doing a terrible job of explaining this."

"Geez, you expect me to explain why I love you while you're being a pain in the patootie?"

"Clearly." Pause. "What is a patootie?"

"You expect me to explain new vocab words while you're being a pain in the derriere?" Napoleon pressed a hand to one side of Illya's head and a kiss to the top. "Anyway, in anticipation of a hole you'd probably punch in my rationale, no: I don't have a point of reference for this type of love. That's kind of the thing though, isn't it?"

"What thing?"

"The thing is that I've never felt this way about anyone but you. The closest thing was when I had a girlfriend years ago, but it's much stronger with you."

Illya grunted. "So a butterfly in the stomach for her, and nausea for me?"

"In keeping with your ever-romantic indigestion analogy, I suppose that's an accurate description of the relative intensity. Hey," he grinned, "maybe that's where the concept of being 'lovesick' came from."

"I am unfamiliar with the etymology of the word, but that seems plausible."

"Actually, the first time I said it—that I love you—it was half accidental. I meant more that I loved you as a person but, in the context of our dating, I realized after I said it that it could easily be construed as 'in love'. And eventually I realized that 'in love' was probably not wrong."

Illya shifted onto an elbow so he could look square into the brown eyes. "You are… in love?"

"I haven't made that clear?"

"I… must have neglected to take into account the context. I would attempt to punch a hole at this point, but you have already anticipated that impulse." He lay down again. "Your aunt was wrong. You have very poor taste."

"Beg pardon?"

"In people to fall in love with. Terrible taste."

"Then it's good for me that you taste so good."

Illya turned his face away as Napoleon leaned in. "You think I want to kiss you now, after you have revealed a rather concerning fondness for the flavor of human flesh?"

 _"God, what a tease."_

They both sat up to look to the wall behind the headboard, and Napoleon took a second to process the interjecting voice before responding. "Would you mind saying that again, my dear Cyn?"

A squeak from the other side of the wall, then, _"I—I was just saying how you shouldn't say anything too awkward or otherwise regrettable, given these thin walls."_

"Thanks for the heads-up."

 _"Anytime, Francis."_

Napoleon picked up his pillow and motioned toward the foot of the bed. Illya nodded and they reorganized themselves with their feet closer to the wall.

The Russian picked up the throw pillow that they'd previously relegated to the foot of the bed, now tossing it between his hands and watching its progress as he asked, "Have you told your parents?"

"Told them what?"

"About your work. Mark's mother and siblings know. April's parents know. It seems your parents do not, but I do not know for certain."

"Ah. Yeah, I haven't quite gotten around to it yet."

Illya grunted softly, spinning the pillow around before tossing it around again.

"Are you bringing it up because you think I should tell them?"

"I wanted to satisfy my curiosity."

"Alright. Well, since we're talking about it now anyway… do you think I should tell them?"

"I never told my parents. They are now dead as a result of my career choice."

Napoleon was quiet for a few moments in the hope of drawing some eye contact, but Illya kept his gaze on the pillow. "You regret not telling them?"

"No."

"You think I should tell my parents?"

"I did not say that."

"Then what were you saying?"

"I made statements of fact. I leave them to your interpretation."

"Okay, but it seems suspiciously like you're attempting to advise me on the matter."

"The only advice that should be taken from me, is to never listen to my advice."

"Writing ourselves into a contradiction, aren't we?"

"See what trouble it is already, to take my advice?" Illya tossed the pillow a bit in Napoleon's direction and the brunet accordingly caught it as the blond added, "My opinion is that you ought to consider telling your parents, if you have not already given the matter some thought. I am sure you will ultimately make the decision that is best for your particular situation." He turned away. "Good night, Francis."

* * *

 _Later that night_

Napoleon glanced back upon taking his weight off the bed to ensure he hadn't disturbed his bedmate, finding slits of blue groggily peering in his general direction. He gave the blond head a couple of reassuring pats and, once Illya had half-smiled and resumed his sleep, left the room.

He padded down to the kitchen to prepare some tea and had just sat down at the counter to wait for the water to boil when he heard footsteps approaching. Napoleon hitched the leg with his ankle holster up on the stool until he saw it was the only vaguely threatening Constance—and she was only threatening in any capacity due to the broom she wielded.

"Ah, it's you," Constance sighed, lowering her broom. "Mark mentioned you were tasked as security detail for Ilia, so I'm afraid I was a bit paranoid." She lifted the stick a bit to further clarify its intended purpose, then leaned it in a corner of the wall. "Having some tea?"

"Yes. Everyone I know who's spent any time in England seems pretty confident in its calming abilities, so I figured I might as well give it a shot." Napoleon flicked at the tag sticking out of his mug. "Stole some of this lavender-chamomile stuff."

Constance took a seat. "You need some calming, eh? Nothing worse than jetlag, I hope."

Napoleon shrugged. "Nothing much but, since you're lingering here instead of heading back upstairs, can I take that as you wouldn't mind my bumming an opinion off you? I don't know a lot of parents and having your insight might be illuminating in this situation."

"I don't mind, if you don't mind boiling enough water for the both of us. I could use some calming myself after my little adventure with the broomstick."

The American grinned and added more water, retrieving a mug and a sachet of the tea Constance requested.

"Now, what can I give you an opinion about?"

"Well… my parents hoped to have grandchildren someday. Expected to, really, since my sister seemed inclined in the get-married-have-children direction but… she died before she could get to any of that. I'm not—I don't want children. In other circumstances, I'd have no problem sticking to my 'it's my life, not yours' guns but…"

"But you feel you're letting them down, now you're their only chance at grandkids."

"Yes."

Constance nodded. "Alright. First thing, I'm sorry to hear about your sister."

The water sounded quite bubbly by this point, so Napoleon occupied himself with switching off the hob and splitting the water between his and her mugs. Once he'd settled down again, she continued.

"Second thing, you're right that it is entirely your decision. Whether or not to have children one day. The only difference I would suggest you make in addressing the matter, is to be a bit extra patient if they start hinting around."

"I will. That's what I thought but… I also felt it was a little selfish of me."

"What would be more selfish: not having children, or having children you'd not wanted to make yourself feel right with your parents? Wouldn't be fair to the hypothetical kiddies, now would it?"

"Yes… yes, thank you."

She smiled and they sat quietly for a few minutes as the tea steeped, until he ventured, "So how'd you take it when Mark told you about his career of choice?"

Constance smiled. "He's not told you?"

He shook his head.

"Well, it'll be just between us that I've betrayed his trust. I expect he's still a bit embarrassed about the whole episode." Napoleon grinned broadly so she reiterated, "Between us, Sir Francis."

"Scout's honor, ma'am."

"Alright. Mark was sixteen, and Arthur fourteen. In the same school, and I suppose it's not unusual that there was some bullies. Racist, the worst of 'em, so they were giving Arthur a hard time. They didn't want me fretting, so they tried to handle it themselves: first by confronting the bullies, then telling staff, but nothing was working. And then I showed them _The Sting_."

"Does that have to do why Mark and Art were calling each other Newman and Redford?"

"Yes. They didn't take it as a how-to guide, of course, but it got them thinking about sting operations. Around the time I showed them the movie, the bullying was getting worse and they were concerned things might get more violent, so they thought the staff might pay the matter better attention if they could get some evidence of the issue and present it. Mark got himself in with the bullies and found that their concern about violence was even more valid than they thought, as there was some talk of a bombing at an event the school was planning."

Constance took a sip of tea to provide a dramatic pause. "Two guesses what happened next."

"They marched themselves down to the nearest police station and ever-so-responsibly reported the matter."

"Mark tried that, but he was reprimanded for seeking to waste law enforcement resources to resolve a children's bullying problem. Next."

"They offered to sell explosives to the bullies and filmed the transaction as evidence of their nefariousness."

"Bingo."

"Good thing you didn't aid in their inspiration by showing them _Carrie_."

Constance had a chuckle before continuing. "Day after they turned their video in to the police, a pair of gray-suited men were at the door. From the U.N.C.L.E. and they wanted to talk recruitment with Mark and Art. I wouldn't let them talk with Art, though, since I thought fourteen was a bit young for that sort of talk. Sixteen is young too, of course, but Mark was already looking into careers and universities and all that, so I thought allowing them to talk with me in the room was… well, reasonable, I suppose."

"And he ran with it."

"Yes. They let him be a couple years after that, and then he signed on, went to New York for uni, and you know the rest."

"And is Art interested now?"

"Oh, no. I mentioned it to him at the time that they'd asked to see him, and he said he didn't mind not having been allowed to speak with them. And now he's very much interested in environmental work. Cyn seems to be headed that way, as well."

Napoleon nodded. "Good for them. And good for you. In most places, environmental careers aren't quite as risky as Mark's line of work. Depressing maybe, but not as dangerous."

Constance nodded.

"How do you feel about Mark's line of work? Knowing the risks involved and everything."

"I fret, of course, but I know it's what he wants to be doing so, for my sake and his, I try to contain myself. Besides, there's risks in everything, isn't there? He'll likely not be harmed on assignment, just as he'll likely not be mauled by a honey badger. And I rest easy knowing it is nigh well impossible that he'll be mauled by a honey badger whilst on assignment."

Solo smiled drily into his near-emptied cup of tea.

"By any chance, has your line of questioning anything to do with… not having told your parents about your job?"

"You see right through me, Constance."

"You didn't make it difficult. Does that mean you'd like an opinion on that, as well?"

"If you don't mind."

"I don't know your parents, of course, but for the most part I'd recommend telling them. A matter of respect for them and, if something does happen—heaven forbid, you'd not want them to find out upon being notified of your death."

Napoleon hummed.

"I expect you wanted me to advise the opposite but I'm afraid I can't."

"Honestly, no. I've been trying to convince myself to tell them and I thought having someone tell me to do it might be the kick in the pants I need. Thanks for being a pal."

"No trouble at all."

Napoleon got up and stretched. "Well, time for turning in, take two."

"Leave the cup," she said when he started to rinse out the mug. "I'll do it in the morning."

"Thanks." He patted her shoulder and Constance gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Good night, Constance."

* * *

 _Tuesday morning_

Illya turned, partway in the process of pulling the sleeve of a turtleneck over his arm, to find a shirtless Napoleon freshly returned from his shower and standing in the doorway. Solo scanned from his sock-clad feet, to the briefs, to the shirt clothing a single arm—and then caught himself, cleared his throat, and sheepishly offered, "Uh, sorry. I…"

"Choose in or out and shut the door," Kuryakin snapped quietly, putting his shirt on the rest of the way.

"Yes… yes." Napoleon stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door. "I, uh, guess I should have knocked."

"No, I should have realized that you'd take a shorter time in the shower while a guest in someone's home. It seems my time management skills need some work as well." He quickly pulled on his trousers, noted the shirt Napoleon had left on the bed, and snatched it up, holding it up in a fully-extended arm with his own face modestly turned away. "Please."

Napoleon mused that it was definitely for the best that they hadn't gone through with Illya's suggestion of remediating Solo's "suboptimal satisfaction" the previous week, seeing as this was the Russian's reaction to their each being half-dressed. He commented, "It, uh, might not bode well that you're so thoroughly offended by my semi-nudity, chou."

"Not offended. To the contrary." Still looking away, he almost clipped Napoleon in the nose as he gave the shirt a light shake to draw attention to it. "Please put it on."

"Then you're… attracted?"

"As you seem set on belaboring the point: yes, Napoleon, I am attracted to you. Our 'The Talk' was most informative and I very much appreciated it, but having the resource of information does not mean that I have miraculously developed the capacity to comport myself appropriately."

Napoleon wisely and finally took the shirt before Illya could shake the garment again and take out a couple of teeth in the process. "Don't overthink it," he advised as he pulled on the top. "The only requirements are that all parties involved give consent and are content. Anything with those qualities is appropriate."

"Thank you for granting me an overwhelming number of options." Illya looked to the American again, then shifted his gaze away upon finding him still in the process of buttoning the shirt.

"It's safe now. All dressed."

Illya grunted and tugged at the collar of his turtleneck.

"I'm sorry for ogling you when I walked in. I know I shouldn't have done that, but it did make me want to say something."

Illya winced.

"Hey, what's that for?"

"I am guessing that you are going to comment on my physique," Illya said, "and am anticipating that it will either be the truth—which is unflattering—or a compliment—which would be untrue."

Napoleon frowned.

"Go on."

"Now that you've taken the wind out of my sails?"

Illya folded his arms and lifted his chin, challenging, "I leave that up to you."

"In that case…." Napoleon wolf whistled.

"That is what you were going to say?"

"Yes. I dare you to argue my point."

Illya glanced skyward for a moment, turned his head, and blew a raspberry before returning to his previous stance, this time with an eyebrow arched. "Counterpoint?"

"Okay: you're damn sexy right now."

His brow furrowed. "Blowing raspberries is… what you said?"

"I meant the way you're standing now. And so I reiterate my original declaration." He whistled. Upon being met by silence, he prodded, "No clever retort?"

"I peaked with the raspberry."

Napoleon stepped in front of the doorknob as Illya approached, the American asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I am going downstairs for breakfast."

"No, you aren't. You can't go anywhere right now."

"I cannot?"

Solo hummed and shook his head, taking Kuryakin by the shoulders and biting back a smile at the look of surprise that briefly broke through the indifferent façade as the blond allowed himself to be turned and lightly pressed back against a spot of wall by the door.

"Why not?"

Napoleon slipped a hand round the back of the Russian's neck, enjoying the sharp intake of breath as he leaned in close to speak in his silkiest tone. "You can't—" A slow meeting of lips. "—because—" A lingering kiss to the jawline before he moved up to whisper in his ear. "—your fly is open."

Solo slipped out of the room before Kuryakin could react, and Illya rested his forehead against the once-again-shut bedroom door.

"Pull yourself together," he muttered, then realized he ought to take his own advice a bit more literally and quickly zipped his trousers before he could forget again.

Forehead back to the door. "Your temperature will go up if your heartrate does not slow, and then you will turn red and stay that way as you go downstairs, and—stop talking to yourself, idiot."

He snapped upright as Napoleon's voice travelled from downstairs, "Ilia! Mark's uncle is here! Come on down and be social!"

Illya let out a breath, patted himself down quickly to make sure everything was where it should be, and headed down, arriving in the sitting/dining room just as Cynthia exclaimed, "Engaged!"

She wasn't looking at him or Napoleon, so he followed her gaze to a lanky brown-haired man (presumably Ashley Slate) and a tall strawberry-blond woman next to him.

"Robin Fenster," Ashley said with a squeeze to the lady's shoulder. "We've been acquainted about a year—business associates, don't you know, and we got quite close while I've been away for work and all. Didn't want to tell you over the phone I'd met a keeper so… surprise, hey?"

"Surprise, indeed," Constance agreed. "Lovely to meet you, Robin—goodness, I know you said this was to be a brief visit, Ash, but do you think you could come back again later, when Art gets back from school for the day?"

"Afraid not," her brother said. "Work."

Once Constance had made a disappointed tutting sound, Mark said, "And now I must do my sacred duty of introducing you to the friends I made in 'Murica. Uncle Ash—Robin—this is my best mate Jennifer Edwards."

Ashley Slate promptly offered his hand to shake and, as April took it, he said, "I hope you don't mind Mark calling you 'mate', young lady."

Dancer grinned. "I don't mind. I know it's mostly a dude thing, but I like it. Nice to meet you too, Robin."

Mark motioned to Napoleon and Illya. "And these lads are Francis Bacon and Ilia Davidovich, the affianced."

Ashley had started to offer his hand in their direction at the first part of Mark's introduction, but suddenly stopped upon hearing the words after the comma. He looked to his nephew to ask with a frown, "To each other?"

"Yes," Mark confirmed in a tone that added, _'and why the hell is that expression on your face?'_

"This is Ilia? I thought that was a girl's name…?"

Mark said, "Yes, this is Ilia and no, it's a boy's name."

Illya put in crisply, "I assure you, Mr. Slate, that homosexuality is no more contagious than homophobia." The Russian extended his hand.

Ashley Slate shook the hand after another moment of hesitation, then offered his own to Napoleon, saying with a smile that was more condescending than anything else, "I'd not realized those Eastern European websites did mail-order husbands, as well."

"Ashley!" Constance interjected.

Napoleon frowned briefly, then smiled. "Ah, I see! You're saying it's hard to believe that I could land a catch like Ilia solely based on my sparkling personality." He put a hand to Slate's elbow. "I know he's got an incredible charm about him, friend, but don't forget that you have a lovely fiancée of your own, so try to keep your hands and thoughts off mine."

Solo turned to shake Robin Fenster's hand. "You've got a real challenge with this old dog, Miss Fenster. I'd recommend a good strong leash." A chuckle as he cast a sharp glance to the man in question. "Maybe a muzzle."

Napoleon looked to April and Mark. "We're going for a walk around the neighborhood. We'll be back in a little bit."

He draped an arm around Illya's shoulders to steer him away, snagged their jackets on the way out, and handed over Illya's once they were safely outside. Kuryakin's determined lack of eye contact and the quick shake of the head made it clear that talking would not be happening at once, so they strolled in silence, getting only a few yards out before a voice behind them called out.

"Ilia—Francis!"

Illya stopped walking but didn't turn around as Napoleon did to see Robin jogging to catch up with them.

"I wanted to apologize for what happened in there. Ashley… he's not normally like this and I'm sure he's very sorry—"

"He is indeed," Illya commented under his breath.

"—or if he's not just now, he will be soon. He's had such troubles with work lately… but that's not a good excuse, I suppose."

Napoleon smiled dryly. "There are very few good excuses, Miss Fenster, short of being under the threat of bodily harm."

"Yeah," Robin agreed with a laugh. "You are absolutely right, Mr.—ah—S-Speakman?"

"Bacon," the American corrected.

"Of course! Well, I'll leave you to your walk—and, again, I'm so sorry about Ashley. I've no idea what's gotten into him today, dear, oh, dear." Robin rubbed at the rose gold choker around her neck and hurried back to the house.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Napoleon took Illya's hand and asked as they started walking, "Do you get the feeling something weird is going on?"

"In this age? Constantly."

"Fair enough, but I meant with Ashley and Robin, specifically. I'd have thought Mark would be polite enough to warn us—unless, of course, this is out-of-character for the esteemed Uncle Ash."

"As seems to be the case, given that the Slates and Miss Fenster seemed rather shocked," Illya pointed out.

"Exactly. And Robin Fenster—we don't know her, of course, but… she was acting kind of weird just now."

"Perhaps residual shock from her fiancé's sudden-onset obnoxiousness."

"Perhaps." Napoleon nudged the other's elbow with his own. "We'll just have to keep our eyes peeled when they're around, eh, chou?"

"What a disgusting expression, but yes."

"'Disgusting,' says the man who considered conducting autopsies on small animals a fun little hobby. Hey… maybe we should call in and ask Gerry to see if we have anything on them."

Illya raised a brow. "You think it could be that sinister?"

"When people somehow connected with our uncle exhibit abnormal behavior, it doesn't hurt to look into it. How about you call in?"

Illya abruptly produced the radio communicator from his pocket, assembled it single-handedly, and hooked it around his ear. "Hemispheric relay. Open channel S."

 _"Channel S open, Mr. Kuryakin."_

"Gerry. We need a check on two people. Mr. Ashley Slate of Swindon, England, who is Mark Slate's uncle; and Miss Robin Fenster, who sounds to be British and is engaged to Ashley Slate, seems to be thirty- to forty-something-years of age, blond, about… five-foot-nine. Any information suggestive of their being threatened or otherwise involved in underworld activity would be relevant. Additionally, it might be wise to conduct a quick review of any recent activities of Gervaise Ravel. You may contact Mr. Solo with the results."

 _"Anything else, sir?"_

"No, that is all."

 _"It shall be done. And if you'll pardon my buttinsky-ing, I hope you have a little relaxing penciled in for this alleged holiday of yours."_

"I am at my most relaxed as we speak, Gerry. Goodbye."

 _"Pip-pip, sir."_

Illya disassembled the communicator and replaced it before tugging the hand of Napoleon's he was still holding, urging that they resume their interrupted walk.

"So back there…." Napoleon used his free hand to tuck a few strands of blond behind the ears. "I think you handled Ashley's unkind remarks well."

"Well?" Illya echoed. "I was rude, which is something I have been trying to avoid. I failed."

"I disagree. I know you've been anticipating homophobic comments for a while and—"

"And yet I did not dissolve into a puddle of tears. Yes, it is quite the achievement. Huzzah for a petty, limited, selfish joy," Illya concluded with a semi-quote.

"Self-contempt is a serpent, or so I've read." Napoleon grinned at the wide eyes suddenly upon his face. "Whatever might have prompted that expression, pray tell."

"I… did not expect you to read Marx. Certainly nothing beyond a perusal of _Das Kapital_ as part of a well-rounded education."

"Hey, if I'm going to argue with you about socioeconomic systems, I should know all sides of the argument. And Marx is, on occasion, not entirely wrong. See what a terrible influence you are on me?"

Illya scoffed as Napoleon kissed his cheek. He grumbled, " _Prynts charivnyy_."

"Does that mean 'a devastatingly charming man'?" When the Russian smiled secretively and didn't reply, Napoleon's eyebrows jumped. "Holy cow, does it really?"

"Something like that."

"Say it again."

"Something like that."

"I meant the 'prints-chary' thing. As you know."

" _Prynts charivnyy._ "

"Ukrainian?"

"Yes."

" _Prynts_ …?"

" _Charivnyy_."

" _Prynts char_ —prince charming?" Napoleon was fairly certain that his chapped lips split a bit as he grinned from ear to ear, but kept up the beaming smile as he guessed, "You called me a prince charming?"

"I already conferred upon you the ability to call me a bunny, a kitten, a sparrow, a small bear, and a sunshine," Illya lamented, "so hell hath already been loosed." So far the American hadn't taken advantage of his recently-acquired vocabulary, but Illya assumed that he was merely biding his time.

"Hell is significantly more delightful than I'd pictured it. Hey, you know something?"

"Occasionally."

"I think I'd like to learn one of your languages. Ukrainian or Russian—one of the things you grew up with."

"My English is generally serviceable enough to allow for effective communication."

"I don't mean as a main language of communication. Just… I think it'd be nice if I could get a handle on some basics. The way people talk in their native language is sometimes different from how they express themselves in a language they learn later, so I'd like to get to know you a little with the benefit of that perspective."

Illya stopped walking.

"What?"

"Ah… ha."

Napoleon offered a bemused smile as Illya gradually broke into laughter. After almost a minute of appreciating the Russian's amusement, he joined in and eventually asked, "What's so funny?"

"I assure you, Napoleon, that I will not make very much more sense to you in any language. Ah." He extricated his hand from Solo's so he could use both sets of fingers to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. "That was quite enjoyable."

"I enjoyed it too. You don't laugh much."

"Yes… I must rid myself of this unfortunate sensation before I act truly bizarre." Illya glanced around, seemed to find what he was looking for—"That will do."—and approached a stone wall by the path they'd been following. He pressed his palms onto the surface and lifted himself into a handstand.

Napoleon put his hands in his pockets as he came over, tilting head around. " _Before_ you start acting bizarre?"

"Yes."

"Rid yourself of what?"

He bent at the midsection to lightly tap Napoleon on one shoulder with the toe of his shoe. "While not entirely unpleasant—" Tap on the other shoulder. "—that little fit was out of keeping with my normal behavior—" Tap on the head. "—so it may have had to do with feelings of mania or agitation, side effects of my medication. I can usually contain it with sufficient amounts of physical activity, but I did not have a run yesterday and I doubt your ability to keep up with me should I take off running at this time."

The American shook his head and grinned as the Russian carried out several multidirectional splits. "Show-off."

"I am not showing off." He shifted his hands and then lifted one. "Now I show off." After returning his free hand to the surface, he did a couple of pushups. "And now I attempt to burn off the agitation."

"Is it working?" Napoleon prompted a few moments later.

"Perhaps. It is hard to tell with the blood rushing to my head."

"You, sir, are a silly goose."

"Gooses are not silly. They are vicious, spiteful, and not to be underestimated."

"Geese," Napoleon corrected first, and then, "Are you speaking from personal experience or is this just general knowledge?"

"Both. And if you will call something silly, the pluralization of 'goose' might be an option."

"Can I call you a strange duck or is that also problematic?"

"That is a more apt expression. Ducks are rather strange."

"I'm glad you approve." As Illya continued his upside-down exercises, he added, "I must say, I'm somewhat tempted to go for a Spider-man kiss. Wouldn't want to throw you off balance, though."

"Whatever that is, I am sure it would not disturb my equilibrium." He swiveled his legs around quickly. "I have an excellent sense of balance."

"In that case…." Napoleon briefly contemplated the best orientation for going into this and leaned in to press their mouths together. He thought it was going rather well until there was a solid _thump!_ and he suddenly found himself face-to-face with nothing.

When Solo peered over the wall, he found Kuryakin sat with his back against the barrier, legs crossed at the ankle and hands loosely clasped in his lap, looking for all the world as if he'd simply plopped himself down for a rest.

"You think we could say you've fallen for me?" Napoleon drawled. Upon receiving only a soft grunt in reply, he clambered over the wall and squatted down, brushing a bit of the disheveled blond hair aside. "Are you okay?"

"As entertaining as that was, let us agree not to make another attempt."

"Agreed. Answer my question?"

"All but my dignity remains intact."

"Think you've been cured of your, uh, agitation?"

"Thoroughly."

* * *

 _Swindon_

"They seemed right pissed," Ashley remarked upon returning to his apartment. "I think it went rather well."

Crane grunted, tearing off her Robin Fenster wig as soon as the door was shut. Damn, but she did not suit being blond.

"I don't enjoy seeming a douchebag but—" He cut himself off at the intense look he was shot.

"They're our ticket out, Slate."

"What? Who?"

"Do you know who they are, Slate? Your nephew, his friends—do you know who they really are?"

Ashley frowned. "Based on the way you're talking, I suppose I mustn't. Who are they, then?"

Crane stumbled at that. "Well. I. I'm not sure, exactly…"

She took a moment to see if she couldn't beat her brain into surrendering a few details, found it an obstinate opponent, and gave up. Slate, Bacon, Edwards—no, not Bacon and Edwards—but familiar.

Somehow familiar.

Not threatening.

Not T.H.R.U.S.H.

The opposite of T.H.R.U.S.H.

"…but I know enough."

* * *

 **A/N** : The guests in this story are from "Hart to Hart." Max appeared here, April's alias is Jennifer Hart's maiden name, and Jonathan (Jonathon?) Hart will be making an official appearance to round it out. They're mainly here because the actor who played April Dancer also played Jennifer Hart.

I know the flow of my writing kind of comes and goes: it's a little tough to figure out how to balance between taking the time to smooth things out, versus updating before next year. Next chapter should be having one or two action scenes, and hopefully that will also be posted before next year, :)

Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Act III: Mantis shrimp

**A/N** : Hey, I'm back! ( **confetti** ) And you're back! ( **more confetti** ) Some parts of this chapter might even be slightly amusing! ( **the rest of the confetti** ) Or so I hope!

Saw an MFU episode which reminded me that, in the last chapter, I probably should have put "overseas relay" instead of "hemispheric relay". Many internal screams of agony ensued.

Also, the "couple of" action scenes I thought I was going to include kind of fizzled down into about half an action sequence, but this version of events hopefully keeps the plotline reasonably coherent. It makes sense in my head, but sometimes funny things happen when I try to translate Thought Words into Spoken/Typed Words, so… :)

* * *

 **Act III** : Napoleon's mantis shrimp fetish

 _Swindon_

"Really now, I'd not mind in the least nipping out for some makeup-removing wipes," Ashley Slate asserted.

Crane's eyes met his in the sitting room mirror as he grimaced and she scraped the razor across her cheek. She scoffed and he grimaced harder. "What, you've never seen a lady shave before?"

"No, but I always imagined most ladies keep the razor blade safely within its cartridge and are not attempting to gouge out layers of foundation and suchlike."

"When you invent a faster way, I'm all ears."

Slate turned away, occupying himself with arranging and rearranging throw pillows on his sofa to give himself a break from cringing at Crane's razor-based activities. "You were saying Mark and his friends can help us, you think." Red pillow, white pillow, orange pillow.

Crane grunted.

"We'll have to get on that soon, I reckon. They're only in country for a week. When do we tell 'em?" White, red, orange.

"We're not telling them anything. Too risky."

"How can they help if they don't know?" Orange, red, white.

"They'll stumble into it. We'll just give them a little shove and they'll take it from there."

"And if it doesn't work?" Red, orange, white. "If they regain their feet before becoming aware—" White, orange, red. "—or if Ravel catches on and we catch hell for it?"

Crane rolled her eyes and spelled it out. "That's why we're not saying anything directly. That way, their finding out seems, at worst, due to incompetence on our part. Ravel prefers not to waste people once she has them under her thumb. If she thinks we intentionally acted against her, then yes, she'll get rid of us. If she thinks we're incompetent, she'll lower the caliber of what she has us do, but she'll keep us on."

Slate jumped and finally looked to her again as she cursed loudly.

"Finally, it's fucking off!" She dropped the razor blade to the side table beneath the mirror and used her fingers to rub off the last vestiges of Robin Fenster makeup. "We really lucked out, Slate. Your being a fucking a-hole in an effort to cut ties is going to work in our favor."

Slate snorted. Orange, white, red. "Yes, being a fucking a-hole does so endear you to people you want help from."

"It raised their hackles. They know something's up with you, and hopefully I further impressed the existence of a distressing situation on Francis and Ilia." She frowned. "Ilia… I'm not sure if he can help, but he's blonder than Mark and will probably stick closer to Francis, so we'll need him."

Slate raised a brow upon finding that he'd run out of permutations for rearranging pillows. If he'd been wiser, perhaps he'd have foreseen his present predicament and purchased more pillows to better enable his nervous tic of reorganizing things.

"And Francis, by an act of god, has a red coat."

Slate shook his head rapidly. "I'm sorry, why do we need a blonder-blond and for Francis to— _ohhh_."

"Welcome to the party, Slate."

"Yeah, I see you there. But what about when they meet up with the man?"

"They'll take it from there."

"What if they don't?"

"They. Will."

Recognizing a _'the question is closed'_ tone when he heard it, Slate said, "Alright then. How do we get them where and when we need them?"

"We grovel. And by _we_ , I mean _you_ , since you were the fucking a-hole."

Slate pressed his lips together.

Crane rolled her eyes. "Don't give me attitude. I told you: it's working to our advantage."

"Right. Groveling. How and to what end?"

"Call up, apologize, and ask them to join us for lunch as a peace token. Find a place on the high street, ask them to meet us there around two, two-thirty. They're here on vacation so they'll probably arrive early and wander around. Our man only knows we're supposed to meet in the afternoon, so he'll be in the area by twelve, sharp. We'll hang back—I'll keep the wig hidden in a hat and you wear a different color coat—and make sure they run into one another."

"Right. Should I do it now?"

"No, let them have another hour or two to cool off. Might be more willing to see you again if they've had a chance to talk to your family about how you actually aren't a fucking moron or whatever."

"Right… I don't have their number, though."

Crane rubbed her forehead. "Call one of your family. Ask to speak with them. Geez, Slate, I expected a lawyer to be quicker than this. You're about as ethical as I'd expect but—"

"I know I stuffed it up for myself but good," Slate snapped, "but you'll not question my ethics. You and me are in the same boat so let's not get uppity about ethics, Miss Crane."

"I didn't board the ship the same way you did," Crane shot back, shoving the thoroughly rearranged pillows to one end of the sofa and draping herself across the other end. "Fine. Let's keep it nice and simple and civil. You'll call your nephew Mark—if. You. Please," she added with a polite inclination of her head, "and ask to speak with Francis and Ilia…"

* * *

 _Marlborough_

The orchestra must've gotten lost somewhere.

There'd been no soaring trumpets, no violin solo, no lilting flute.

Heck, even a kid on the triangle would have been enough to mask the dismal plip that signaled his official confession of love.

Then again, Napoleon wasn't sure what he thought would happen: he could hardly have expected Illya to return the sentiment on the spot. Still, a smile to accept the declaration would have been nice.

And he hadn't expected to be virtually told off.

Told it was a bad idea and then have the topic fizzle in favor of Kuryakin's abrupt sort-of-but-not-really-a-suggestion that Solo disclose his occupation to his parents… which was a bit odd, come to think of it. The Russian had never been one to bring up family matters, preferring instead to let the American start going off on whatever he wanted and then respond as he saw fit.

Really, sometimes he felt as if he was putting out the blond by discussing things as mundane as what his folks had done last Saturday, or where Aunt Amy was vacationing this summer, but Illya calmly reminded him each time that he wouldn't be bothering to listen at all if he didn't feel like it.

Reminded him that he didn't express interest as obviously as others might.

Reminded him that he didn't mind spending extra time chatting if it could help make up for Illya's halting acceptance and expression of affection…

…which made Napoleon wonder if he was mentally complaining about nothing.

Solo said he was in love. Kuryakin brought up the American's relationship with his parents.

Maybe it wasn't reciprocation, but all of a sudden it sure sounded like a very Illya way of saying: _yeah, I like you, too_.

He glanced to the young man at his side, walking noticeably more stiffly than usual. It seemed more than his dignity had been bruised by his earlier tumble, but he was still putting weight on both legs as he walked, so Napoleon had let the untruth slip by with a couple of _tsk_ 's and a rejected offer of assistance.

So what if the orchestra had made a wrong turn? There was no symphony but, if he listened hard enough, it seemed someone was humming somewhere in the distance. Maybe a little off-key, but still.

"Am I?"

Napoleon blinked at the sudden question and the blue gaze on his face. Once he'd sufficiently roused himself from his contemplations, he asked back, "Are we talking existentially or…?"

"Was Cynthia talking about me and is it true, what she said last night?"

"A tease?"

"Yes, and is that the same as a flirt?"

"I think she was and you are and it can be."

Illya frowned as he parsed out the answer, smiled at the resulting interpretation, and cringed at a bad step.

"I can carry you if you want," Napoleon offered—jokingly, but still perfectly willing to carry through.

"And let you tell everyone you've swept me off my feet?"

The brunet affected a wounded expression. "Would I do that?"

Illya rolled his eyes and didn't dignify the question with a verbal response.

"Well, we're almost back anyway. I'm sure you hop along on one foot if needs must."

"Almost back…" Illya trailed off as he slowed his gait, then shook his head as Napoleon made to offer a supportive arm. "No, it… do you suppose they are still there?"

"Ashley and Robin?"

Nod.

"Either they're not, or they're only there after Ash got a good old-fashioned reaming-out from the family."

Illya's brow furrowed again and soon after he asked, "Reaming…?"

"Same as being chewed out."

"Ah."

"And speaking of chewing people out for things," Napoleon said, "you've called me the wrong name a few times. Watch that until we're back home, okay?"

"That qualifies as a chewing-out?"

"It's the level necessary for this situation, I think—although, in honor of my musical-production aspirations, I could burst into angry song. Would that help you remember?"

Illya shook his head emphatically and picked up his pace again, decided that was a bad idea, and slowed again.

"Sure you don't need help?"

"Not that kind of help."

Napoleon paused a moment before prompting, "Were you planning on telling me what specific part of your leg is injured?"

"No."

"Could you tell me anyway?"

"No, because it is not my leg that is the problem." As Napoleon's eyes stayed on him, Illya supplied, "It is my back. Nothing of concern. From past experience I can assure you that it should be returned to its normal state within a few hours."

"Is it because of a previous injury from gymnastics?" Napoleon ventured.

Illya shot him a look. "It certainly was not from repeated attempts at Spider-man kisses. Yes, from gymnastics. I broke a few vertebrae and the resulting treatment was largely successful, but it left my spine a somewhat reduced flexibility."

"Somehow I'm picturing Little You perpetually with a cast on your assorted body parts."

"Entirely inaccurate. Did—did you do sport growing up?" Illya offered in return, making a mental note to severely chastise his ears for heating up at how pleased Napoleon seemed at being asked.

"I did soccer several years running, but it never amounted to anything. It was mostly just to have a steady activity to keep going when we moved to a new place. And there was that one year I did track and field." A dramatic pause. "Until the javelin incident."

Illya raised his brows and debated whether or not to encourage the sharing of this story. If he asked now, the brunet would share a tale that was amusing, clever, and highly exaggerated. If he waited until later and asked after it out of the blue, he'd get a version that was also amusing and clever, but probably closer to an unembellished truth. Before he could decide which option to go with, they were back at the house and Napoleon's attention was elsewhere.

"You there, no loitering," Napoleon greeted the Slate sitting on the front stoop. Based on there being one fewer car in the drive than there had been when they left, it seemed Ashley and Robin had gone.

"I wanted to talk with you guys alone a moment before you went back in," Mark said, no trace of the usual joviality on his face. "You know I'd not have let Uncle Ash meet you if I thought—I don't know what's his deal. He'd never—well, he'd maybe say the mail-order crap if you were his mates, but he'd not say it so nasty."

Napoleon smiled. "We figured this wasn't normal so we called it in to make sure there weren't any birds on his tailfeathers."

Mark's eyebrows lifted but he conceded, "Can't hurt to check, I s'pose. I've seen Uncle Ash pretty stretched, but he's never started spewing slurs as a result of it so… yeah, good call, I reckon." He turned to Illya. "Don't take anything he said to heart, yeah?"

At Illya's frown and brief glance in Napoleon's direction, Mark added, "Francie-boy here acts like he cares what strangers think but, end of the day, he gives precisely zero shits. On the other hand, you look like you don't care but, deep in your heart, you give all the shits."

Illya considered this. He nodded and spoke slowly. "I have no heart. Therefore, vacuously true." The Russian nodded again, approvingly. "Good logic, Mark."

Mark scratched his head as Illya headed into the house and Napoleon offered, "For the record, I might not give a shit, but I do give a damn when I can spare one."

Slate briefly shook his head and stepped to one side to block Solo's path to the front door. He said quietly, "Is he okay, actually? I know he'd not tell me if I asked."

Napoleon shrugged. "He's not thrilled, of course, but I don't think it'll cause a major setback in his self-image, if that's what worries you."

"Yeah… yeah, that's good. I'll have some words with Uncle Ash sometime as well. If he don't have a tyrannosaur-sized thrush 'round his neck, he's got some fucking serious 'splaining to do. And a fair deal of forgiveness-begging." With a grimace, Mark confessed, "He upped the nasty after you left, so right move on vacating the premises when you did, mate."

Solo returned the wince. "Spare me the gory details. I'd hate to have to dig up a damn." He took a seat on the steps and, as Mark joined him, said, "Robin Fenster. Never heard of her? Never met her?"

"Not a hint."

"Does your uncle tend to spring a Serious Girlfriend on you regularly?"

Mark shook his head in the negative. "Not for the past few years, anyway. Before that… as Mum put it, he'd fall in love with a new girl every time Italy got a new prime minister." He moved his hands in what Napoleon assumed to be the Mark Slate version of gang signs. "European politics jokes, yo."

"What do you think of him and Robin?"

Mark shrugged. "From the naught-point-seven seconds of attention I paid her amidst Uncle Ash's apparent mental breakdown, I guess I could give her the benefit of the doubt. It didn't seem as if she was encouraging his comments. She looks his type." He smirked and elbowed the American. "Then again, I'd've never foreseen your being besotted with a lad, so it seems my romantic intuitions ain't all that, hey, Francie?"

Napoleon pulled a face and started to protest, "Besot—" but shook himself out of it and went on, "So what's your uncle's job, that he might be so stressed out?"

"He's a solicitor—a lawyer, I mean. Used to work with a firm, steady. Went in for himself a couple years ago and it's been up and down. Maybe that's why he's not been doing much dating recently: busy, busy. Anyway." Mark stood. "You missed breakfast when you heroically strode out earlier. Let's go on and get something in you."

They went in and Napoleon took in the scene: Illya sat in the middle of the sofa, flanked by Constance and April, and with Cynthia leaning over the couch behind his back as Mark's mother pointed at something on a tablet the Russian was holding.

"Ilia, the ladies' man," Napoleon proclaimed, tilting his head around in an exaggerated examination of the setup. "I leave you alone for five minutes and this is what happens?"

Illya spared him a glance, then spoke to the tablet as he responded, "Yes, you are a rotten influence on me."

"So what are you ladies distracting my Ilia with?"

"It's my penance," Cynthia provided as Illya responded with a quick glare to his now-smirking boyfriend. The corners of her mouth pulled down. "After how Uncle Ash done, I felt crap for eavesdropping and commentating last night so I apologized and now Mum's embarrassing me by showing photos from a rally I attended last year."

"I am not embarrassing you," retorted Constance. "I'm sharing proud moments in your life."

"I had a bad face of acne and it was too hot to keep makeup on," Cynthia said darkly. "Proud enough at the time, sure, but that's not to be taken as meaning I wanted my zits preserved for posterity."

Napoleon smiled. "I'm sure the radiant glow from your positive actions was better than the best makeup, my dear Cyn."

After taking a moment to look pleased at the flattery, Cynthia glanced back to the tablet to remind herself of the cold hard truth. She sighed at the photographic evidence. "How d'you know I'd not been protesting puppies and kittens and rainbows and unicorns?"

"Because Mark would've disowned you by now."

Mark came over to check out the screen. Once he'd gotten a look, he asked, "Was that the rally at McCoy Colliery you told me 'bout last year?"

"Yeah."

"How'd it turn out? Vanquished your foes and all that good stuff?"

Cynthia shrugged. "Got the government to agree to redoing the environmental impact assessment, since they did such a crap job of it the first time. They're having another meeting on it soon, actually."

"You going?"

"'Course, yeah."

"Show 'em what's what."

As the cuckoo clock on the wall chimed the hour, Napoleon turned to Mark. "You mentioned something about food. Did you tell your mom—"

"Mark mentioned about Ilia's diet," Constance supplied. "I told Ilia about my little effort to separate what he can eat away from the rest and he says it's fine."

Now Napoleon turned to Illya. "First, you need—"

"I took it and compelled Jennifer to act as a witness," Illya interrupted.

April gave a thumbs-up to vouch for the Russian's having taken his medication and added, "I can also confirm that he either has wonderful teeth genes or an amazing dentist."

"I do not have a dentist. Francis is the only one permitted to prod around in there."

Napoleon huffed. "Well, I was about to complain about your not needing me, but now I feel better knowing I can devote my energies to talking you into a dental appointment."

* * *

 _Swindon_

Ashley let out a breath, hovering his finger just above the name of his sister's eldest child. He glanced to Crane's get-on-with-it-already expression and wished he could be doing this in private, but reminded himself that it was better to have her around to monitor and make sure he didn't mess it up.

At her disgruntled semi-growl, he finally hit the Call icon, then the Speakerphone, and prayed that Mark would answer. On the fifth ring:

 _"If you're not about to offer a profoundly heartfelt apology to Ilia and Francis, you can hang up now."_

"Would you mind putting them on, Mark?"

A pause, and then, _"One foul word, Uncle Ash—"_

"None."

 _"—one foul word,"_ his nephew pressed on, _"and I don't know that I could forgive you. Not for a time, at any rate. Quite some time."_ A sigh, then firmly: _"So then?"_

Ashley swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I am sorry, Mark. And that's what I'll tell them. If I may."

Another pause, and then an American voice took over the other end of the line with a cool: _"Mr. Slate."_

"Mr. Bacon—may I call you Francis?"

 _"I'd say whether or not we're on a first-name basis is the least of my concerns, Ashley,"_ the American drawled.

"Is Ilia there as well?"

A dry chuckle. _"Not for you he isn't."_

"Yes, I… I see. I—it's not enough to apologize over the phone. I wondered if you might meet Robin and myself for lunch tomorrow. You and Ilia. My treat."

Silence.

"I understand if you'd rather not, but I truly regret this morning. I behaved reprehensibly. I apologize now and I'd like to apologize in person as well."

No response at first, but there were a few muffled words exchanged, followed by some background noises that sounded as if the other end of the line was being moved into another room. _"Ilia has graciously agreed. We'd be delighted to join you—but in the interest of full disclosure, Ashley, I would not be above asking you to step outside should the need arise. It may be cliché, but I assure you I am entirely sincere."_

"In the interest of full disclosure, Francis, I've no doubt that you could thoroughly trounce me, should the need arise."

 _"That's good."_ The voice turned more cheerful. _"Now that we understand each other, where are we doing lunch, hm?"_

"There's an Italian place on the high street. Marlborough."

 _"Ah, you can never go wrong with Italian, can you?"_ Francis returned, as if he were talking to his best friend. _"What's it called?"_

Ashley offered the name.

 _"Okee-doke, we'll just check out its particulars online and we'll meet you there. What time would be good for you?"_

"Will two-thirty do you? I'm afraid I can't get off work any earlier than that."

 _"That'll do us fine, Ashley, old boy. I'm looking forward to it. Shall I return you to Mark?"_

"If you please. Oh—" he added hastily as Crane did a bit of enthusiastic miming, "—and be sure to bring a coat. Been right nippy of late."

 _"Now that's right considerate of you to mention, Ashley. I can see why Mark's said good things about you. Hope truly does spring eternal."_

Ashley smiled. If this hadn't been a ploy to potentially shove Francis into harm's way, he'd have to admire the man's willingness to move on from an abominable first impression. He caught a frantic waving motion in his peripheral vision and took in the words Crane mouthed.

"Oh—Francis, might I have your phone number? If we've trouble finding each other, I can text you."

Francis Bacon recited the digits and Crane scribbled them down.

"Thank you."

 _"Absolutely my pleasure,"_ and then a more muffled, _"Mark, your uncle—delightful man—your uncle would like to talk to you again."_

A moment later followed a somewhat wary, _"Uncle Ash."_

"I've arranged to meet up with Francis and Ilia for a bite tomorrow. Listen, Mark…"

 _"You listen first."_

"A-alright…."

 _"I know you've been stressed, professionally. And I know you're not a bigot, though you sure as fuck could've fooled me today. If you need to vent, I'm here for the week. And when I'm not here for face-to-face venting, I'm only a call or text or video-chat away. I'm happy to make time for any of that, even if it's sixty minutes of vigorous swearing. But never,_ never _dare to abuse my friends again."_ A deep breath. _"Your turn. I'm listening."_

"I am truly sorry—I can't explain—" At Crane's shaking head, he switched tacks. "—that is, there is no excuse. I'll try to set things right with your friends."

 _"Good."_ A pause. _"It's not me you were ragging on, though, so I'm withholding my forgiveness until Francis and Ilia give the all-clear. Please don't fuck it up, Uncle Ash."_

"I want this to not be fucked up as badly as you, Marko. It'll be right in the end, I promise."

 _"Alright. Bye then."_

"Bye."

* * *

 _Marlborough_

 _Tuesday evening_

"There's an alright place down in Pewsey. Let's grab some drinks, what?"

"Pewsey?" Napoleon grinned at what sounded to him like the epitome of charmingly British place names. "A place in Pewsey can't help but be alright." He nudged Illya by him on the sofa. "How about it?"

Illya looked doubtfully to the time displayed at the corner of his laptop screen as it lit up. Almost seven in the evening, and most of the day lost to wandering the great outdoors, researching places they could go over the next few days, and tuning in and out as the others reminisced about when they'd last been all together in London. "I should work," he hedged and, noting his boyfriend's slipping smile, added, "but that does not preclude your going."

Before Solo could reply, Dancer agreed, "Only one of you and Mark and me would have to stay here. I have some studying to do anyway, so why don't you and Mark go with Cyn? And Art, if he's going."

Art shook his head and tapped at the book on his lap. "Some of us ain't lucky spring breaking or gap year-ing bastards just now. Fuck off and let us assiduous types to our labors."

At Napoleon's lingering glance, Illya pointed out, "You require neither my supervision nor my approval."

"Right," Cynthia jumped in, "all settled then." She headed out of the room calling, "Mum! Me and Mark are going to offend Sir Francis's American sensibilities by taking him out for a room-temp beer. Would you mind terribly chauffeuring us or shall we be responsible adults and designate a driver?"

"If you can time it so I can be in bed by midnight, I'll drive you," Constance's voice returned.

"And if we can't," Mark quipped, "the pumpkin-mobile it is." He added loudly enough for his mother to hear, "We shall plan accordingly."

* * *

In love.

Not "loved him".

"In love" with him.

There was a difference and, of course, Illya was under a solemn obligation to overanalyze the terms until they surrendered their secret and enlightened him on what separated one from the other.

It shouldn't have been so very complex, he acknowledged: _in love_ was for romantic partners, and just-plain _love_ was for anyone and anything else.

But then what separated romantic partners from anyone else? A reasonable difference in genetic material was a prerequisite, of course, but any given person didn't automatically fall for any other, adequately unrelated human.

And, come to think of it, why did anyone fall for anybody? It came down to genetic material again, he supposed. This time, the transfer thereof: perpetuation of the human race. People fell for people because they were attracted to one another, and that attraction was to facilitate—

But that didn't cut it, either. Not everybody had that level of intimacy with whoever they were in love with. And not everybody who had that level of intimacy was hoping to perpetuate the species. He and Napoleon hadn't yet— _ahem_. And they certainly couldn't— _well_. That much was self-evident.

He seemed to be getting off-track here.

What was the problem again?

Love. Right.

Maybe the wide-angle view wasn't appropriate. His track record of understanding humans in general was rather spotty, so perhaps he'd do better to narrow his focus to the case of Napoleon and himself.

What had Napoleon said last night, when he was doing such a poor job of trying to explain how he knew he was in love? He said Illya was attractive and special, which meant… what? Aesthetically pleasing and kind of weird? He could describe a mantis shrimp the same way. And that was not helpful unless Napoleon had a mantis shrimp fetish, and he sincerely hoped that wasn't the case.

Narrow the focus again: just Illya. If he couldn't figure out himself, he was really in trouble.

Right, then. What kept Illya drawn to Napoleon? Or was that even a relevant point in attempting to determine what it meant to be in love? Was he in love? And how could he tell whether or not he was if he didn't know what _in love_ meant in the first place?

* * *

Arthur looked up from his notebook at a small sound of distress. A quick glance to April showed that it hadn't come from her, as she was already looking to Ilia, slouched in his seat, head bowed over his laptop, glasses shoved up his forehead to make room for fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. It seemed a break might be in order.

He cleared his throat and asked, "So what's that you guys are doing?"

April guessed at the motivation behind this question, assumed the primary target had been Ilia, and waited quietly with Art for several moments before realizing from Ilia's furrowed brow and slow blinks that the blond wasn't going to respond within a reasonable timeframe. She accordingly chimed in with, "I have a chemistry midterm waiting for me when we return."

"The hell of the hard sciences: it requires one to give an actual, specific, right answer instead of allowing things to be swathed in the comforting blanket of personal opinion," Art lamented, then went quiet again to make room for another reply.

At long last, Ilia took note of both April and Art looking expectantly in his direction, and he shook himself out of whatever mental adventure he'd been on. Once he'd recovered from being startled by the eyeglasses dropping from his forehead back to his nose, he supplied: "Classified."

Arthur chuckled at what he assumed to be a joke, but Ilia's flat expression and April's lack of amusement made him second-guess his initial impression, so he stopped laughing and cleared his throat.

"How about you, Art?" April piped up again.

"I'm doing a case study on the McCoy Colliery what Cynthia was talking about earlier…"

* * *

 _An alright place in Pewsey…_

"Just like the good old days, hey, Francis?" Mark commented as he and Cynthia took over the only empty stools at the bar and Napoleon leaned in the corner between bar and wall.

Solo nodded and glanced around the room—then stopped himself as it registered in his conscious mind that these weren't the old days. Not the barhopping Friday nights with Mark and April in New York, when he split his time between laughing with his two friends and scoping out each place they stopped at for a lady willing to close out the night with him in a more private setting.

The old days had been good, he admitted to himself, but they had to stay The Old Days, since in these new days he had someone waiting for him back home.

Well. Maybe _waiting_ was a strong word. Illya was probably too busy programming or grading papers or whatever-it-was he was up to, to spare a thought in Napoleon's direction.

Regardless, these were the good new days and Solo firmly reminded himself not to forget that. Not to look over the female population with a purpose. Not to get himself involved in anything more than a casual flirtation, if the opportunity presented itself. Not to allow his brain and other, more southerly organs to build up the expectation that the night would be ending in a _very specific_ manner.

Then the bartender came over and Napoleon just managed to stop himself from going with the Slate siblings' flow and ordering a beer. Even if the night didn't conclude with one very specific activity, that was no reason to give up all hope of getting at least slightly friendly with his boyfriend. He asked for a red wine and, at Mark's surprised look, provided, "I'd hate to go home with gluten on my breath and give my main squeeze the proverbial kiss of death."

"He's rather sickly, isn't he?" Cynthia mused as the bartender dropped off two beers and poured a glass of wine. As the rather offended-looking bartender retreated to another section of the bar, she clarified, "Ilia, I mean. He's awful slim, and then the whatever-it's-for medication Jen had to make sure he took, and he can't eat practically any of the stuff worth eating."

"I always think so," Mark agreed, "but then he runs 5K like he's trying to break a record and the dust he leaves me in clouds my thinker."

Napoleon frowned. "You don't let him out of your sight, do you?"

"'Course not. I'll have you know I'm in the best fuckin' shape of my life, keeping that damn merciless boyfriend of yours within shouting distance," he groused, then muttered, "Pardon my French, sis," and Cynthia flicked her eyes skyward.

"Yeah, I like him, too," Napoleon grinned, nudging Mark's elbow until the Brit wiped the exaggerated aggrievement off his face, then raising an eyebrow to prompt Slate to make a conversational turn.

Mark accordingly took a swig of his beer before asking his sister, "Does Uncle Ash still travel for work?"

"Yeah, he goes up North pretty regular," Cynthia said, "but not all the way up to Scotland, I don't think. France sometimes. Germany once. Ireland. He was just coming from France, I think, when you arrived."

"Long trips?" Napoleon posed.

"Not generally, no. Few days at a time, at most. Usually just day trips. We see him 'most every weekend." She played with her beer bottle for a few moments of thought. "Trying to work out what may've made him so crazy-like today?"

Mark smiled weakly.

"Let a girl know if you figure it out. I'd love a reason to not shun him for the rest of eternity."

At this glum declaration, Napoleon decided to offer an opening for her to go off on something she seemed passionate about. "What was that rally that you were talking about earlier, my dear Cyn, before my hunger-crazed mind became distracted by the prospect of food?"

"There's a coal mine about an hour north," Cynthia explained. "McCoy Colliery. It was shut down about five years ago, not long after there was a landslip what spread around a healthy amount of mining gook. Not that their problem was environmental contamination, of course, 'cause who gives a fuck about that? No, it was the carbon taxes, really, what shut them down. Not financially worth it to carry on, so the mine was closed and a couple hundred jobs lost."

"Did they not clean up the spill properly?" Napoleon guessed at the cause for the rally.

"They did alright, I guess, though the mining company shunted off as much of the cost onto the surrounding communities as they could manage. Spill shouldn't've happened in the first place—company had a record of inadequate safeguards a mile long—but they did take the right remediation measures and whatnot in the aftermath. The thing is, since the town lost the mine, they need the jobs. So the local gov is willing to cut a deal with a corporation what's offered to buy it up and reopen it."

* * *

Arthur shook his head. "It's only got at—insert inverted commas—'best' ten years' worth of coal, but the miners want their same jobs back and they want 'em now." He shrugged. "Understandable, I suppose, but that's not gonna do for the long term, and anybody with half a brain could notice the extreme lack of preparation the town gov's doing to line up other employment opportunities and job training."

* * *

"And that's just the money aspect," Cyn went on. "So that would be only a ten-year respite in holding onto jobs, followed by the same issue they're trying to avoid now, and in the meantime there's ten more years of carbon being combusted and risks of more environmental contaminations."

* * *

 _London_

"As fascinating as I find local environmental and industrial histories," Victor Marton said with a distinctly underwhelming level of enthusiasm, "what has this McCoy ex-Colliery have to do with the storage of these missiles you have developed?"

"The more coal we remove, the more room we have for our stock," Gervaise Ravel declared. "There's enough room now for a start, and those sections will be closed off, so environmental inspectors won't need to nose around those areas too much."

"Closed off, in what way?" Marton pressed. "It is an open-pit mine, is it not? Is it normal to enclose unused areas, or will that draw undue attention?"

"I have given that some consideration, especially as some of the local whiners have been complaining about the mining project being unsustainable. We're going to propose that the mines, once spent, be converted into a bar. Appeal to the hipsters."

"Will you follow through on that, or is that to assuage the dissidents?"

"If a superior storage location becomes available," Ravel said, "we'll move the stock there and open the bar, since it could double as a T.H.R.U.S.H. facility. If not, we'll say our survey of the surrounding area makes the project fiscally unfeasible. Not enough likely patrons or something."

"And you'll be getting paid for taking over the mine, you said," Marton prompted.

"Yes. It's not bad now with the situation at the Hart warehouse, but turning a profit would be better still. We can get financial breaks from the local government to offset carbon taxes, sell the coal at a modest profit, get free storage for our stock, and have police on our side: the environmentalists won't be happy, so we could use that as an excuse to call in the authorities occasionally, if U.N.C.L.E. activity seems to ramp up in the area."

Marton considered the proposal, asking Ravel to flip to a few different slides from her presentation. Just as she seemed to be losing the reins to her temper, he decided: "I like it."

Ravel accepted the card handed to her. Smiled—not out of relief, of course, since it was no surprise to her, given how thoroughly she deserved it. Ran a thumb over the white words printed on the black card.

 _Gervaise Ravel_

 _T.H.R.U.S.H._

"Allow me to be the first to welcome you into the fold, Ms. Ravel."

* * *

 _Marlborough_

"Hi, sailor, new in town?"

Once a few moments of consideration failed to result in an adequate explanation for Napoleon's greeting, Illya wondered, "What did you have to drink that I am giving you the impression of anything at all nautical?"

"Two glasses of wine." The American pulled a face. "You should be grateful. I didn't want to risk inciting your intestines to riot, so I hung around looking fruity while Mark and Cyn enjoyed some local brews."

"One of us must be terribly drunk. You seem to have ceased making any sense at all."

"I'm not _that_ drunk."

Illya leaned in long enough to take a couple of sniffs. "Four of ten, ten being completely sloshed."

"One," Napoleon countered, rather wounded at being thought such a lightweight that ten ounces of wine could get him forty percent plastered.

"Three."

"Two."

"Two-point-five."

"Deal."

They shook on it, then turned to a review of tomorrow's plans, although Napoleon cheerfully took on more of the conversational onus. Illya preferred to concentrate largely on his own work—he did have to make up for having been distracted earlier by a failed effort to understand love as a concept, after all—and only contributed the occasional grunt of (dis)agreement as seemed necessary. He made extra certain his agreement was loud enough to be appreciated when Napoleon suggested a run in the morning: after today's attempted substitution of handstands as his exercise routine, something that kept his feet on the ground seemed a good idea.

Once April and Mark realized how early they'd have to rise if they wanted to have time for a jog before tagging along with Arthur to Reading, they agreed that Arthur's eleven-thirty bedtime seemed quite reasonable and accordingly headed upstairs along with Constance and Arthur. Cynthia didn't think it seemed quite as reasonable and instead wandered off toward the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Napoleon slid an arm across the back of the couch behind Illya, combing through the blond hair with his fingers and massaging the scalp. Illya studiously ignored the slow effort to completely dishevel his hair for several minutes, before making the fatal mistake of glancing sideways and seeing that the American was staring at him.

Having the poor sense to lock his gaze onto the brown eyes.

Deciding not to protest as he felt the laptop being removed from his lap and heard it being placed on the coffee table.

Wondering at the shiver playing down his body as Napoleon removed his glasses and put them beside the laptop—or, at least, Illya assumed that was where they went. He was too preoccupied with staring into those dark, half-lidded eyes to check.

"God, you look like an angel," Solo breathed, and for some reason Kuryakin went easily as the brunet lightly held his shoulders and maneuvered him down to lie along the length of the sofa.

"I don't think you should say that when you're looking at me like this," Illya offered before Napoleon could join their lips. He wasn't sure how he found the presence of mind to come up with so many words in such a coherent order, but he was glad he'd managed it since he sort of felt funny about being kissed just now.

Not funny in a bad way. Maybe it was the feeling Napoleon had mentioned last night—the one that wasn't indigestion.

Napoleon went along with the diversion for now, chuckling briefly as he redirected his aim from mouth to jawline. "Why? What am I looking at you like, chou?"

"I'm not sure. But it seems distinctly unbiblical and something the Judeo-Christian God would reward with a smiting."

"Mm, but what I'm feeling is very biblical. One of the deadly sins, if memory serves." A trail of kisses up to an ear and a brush of blond hair out of the way later, came the whispered, "Wanna bring down some sheets in the morning?"

Illya's brain was spared the necessity of cobbling together another sentence as a throat was cleared loudly. Napoleon withdrew to prop his chin on the back cushions and say brightly, "Ah, my dear Cyn, we were just talking about you."

"I just bet, Pope Francis," Cynthia's voice sniffed back. "Anyway, I thought I'd let you know I made some Instagram-worthy overnight oats for breaky tomorrow. You're welcome. Oh, and—Ilia?"

Illya squeezed his eyes shut since he knew exactly what this looked like—and it essentially _was_ exactly what it looked like—and hoped he wasn't quite as rumpled and fluorescently red as he felt, then propped himself up on his elbows just enough to peep over the back of the couch.

"I made yours only using the stuff from the containers Mum set up for you. Made it first to ensure I'd not contaminate anything." She didn't quite suppress a giggle. "You suit the tousled look. Carry on," she concluded, leaving them with a wave of her hand.

This interlude having provided a sense-restoring respite, Illya said once he was again the focus of Napoleon's attention, "Perhaps we'd better not. And, now that we know how thin the walls are, I'd rather not do anything that might compromise the sheets."

"I know." Napoleon sighed and kissed along his neck. "It's just you're so beautiful and I'm so horny, I lost my head for a second."

Illya gulped and mentioned, "If it makes you feel better, alcohol tends to inhibit a man's ability to… perform, so you should be happy at the excuse to not put that to the test."

"I assure you, my performance has never been inhibited by two glasses of wine." He finally moved in for a kiss on the lips, smiling when Illya craned his neck a bit to keep them connected just a little longer.

"You taste nice," Illya offered by way of an explanation once they did separate.

"As opposed to usual?"

"Yes." At Napoleon's pout, the Russian pointed out, "You asked."

"I guess so."

At the continued pout, Illya added, "It's not that you taste bad normally."

"No, no, it's fine. Now I know to keep some hard liquor handy when I want to kiss you."

"Wine is not hard liquor."

His only point of reference for Illya and alcohol being when the younger man went on a semi-controlled vodka bender, Napoleon said firmly, "It's the hardest liquor I'm letting you indirectly partake of."

Illya snorted. "Letting me? It's the hardest liquor you can hold, I imagine." He lifted one hand to lightly shove at Napoleon's shoulder, disrupting Solo's mouth's progress back to his neck. "Off, Mr. Bacon, before I send the rest of you to join your mind in the gutter."

Napoleon folded his arms across the chest below, and Illya fell back with an _"mmph!"_ as he took the American's weight. "Only if you promise to close up shop for tonight—" A meaningful glance to the laptop on the coffee table. "—and come straight to bed. You've done enough work today."

"Yes, you are quite exhausting."

Solo grinned. "I have not yet begun to exhaust you." He dropped a kiss to Kuryakin's nose. Getting to his feet, he warned, "If you aren't upstairs in three minutes, I'm coming back for you."

"Is that a threat or a reassurance?" Illya wondered, scrubbing one finger at the trackpad to revive his laptop.

"What does it need to be to get you up there?"

"Neither."

Napoleon furrowed his brow, the picture of suspicion.

"This is a working vacation," Illya countered the other man's disbelieving expression, "so the noun should presumably take precedence over the adjective."

Solo weighed Kuryakin's Workaholic side against his Logical side, decided this explanation seemed sensible enough to beat back any urge to keep working, and left.

* * *

 _Wednesday_

"Have fun in Reading," Napoleon offered as April and the Slate siblings trooped out to the rental car, "except you, Art. You go to class and be miserable."

Arthur glanced back with a sour expression. "I happen to like it, thanks."

"In that case, have fun being miserable," the American amended cheerily. "Oh, hey—keys!"

Arthur scrounged around in his jacket pocket for a moment before lobbing over the set of house keys that he'd offered to let Napoleon hang onto for the day.

"Thanks, Art." He shut the door just as his U.N.C.L.E. communicator went off. "Solo here."

 _"Top o' the mornin', kiddly-o."_

"Hiya, Ger. What'd you get for me?"

 _"Nothing. I got it for Mr. Kuryakin 'cause he asked, but I'm giving it to you 'cause he preferred to be spared my lovely lilting voice."_

"Don't sound so gloomy, Gerry-pie. He likes you." At the responding snort, he amended, "Okay, so I don't know that for a fact, but I'm absolutely sure that he doesn't dislike you."

 _"Best news I've heard all day, Napster, but it's barely in the a.m.'s here, so there's some hope yet."_ Gerry coughed a couple of times and got down to business.

 _"Ashley Slate checks out… okay-ish? No criminal record, but his lawyerly enterprises have been struggling for some time so, if he's acting weird… could be he's just stressed out, but maybe something's up. Robin Fenster—is Ashley engaged to a seventy-nine-year-old man from Manchester? Or a woman from Birmingham who's currently out of the country? A Liverpudlian teen who died in a car wreck last week?"_

"Not ringing any bells, my sweet."

 _"Well, that's a representative sample of the Robin Fensters currently residing in England. I checked records with customs and airlines and all that jazz for Robin Fensters entering or leaving the country, but the only one on their records was Birmingham lady. You sure your Robin isn't a fifty-year-old black lady running for Parliament?"_

"Pretty confident on that one, Ger."

 _"I also looked for Roberta Fensters and other variations along those lines, but couldn't find anybody matching the description. Couldn't say what for, but you should probably keep an eye on her, bebop. I for one tend not to trust people who seem to not exist."_

"Will do."

 _"Mr. Kuryakin also asked about Gervaise Ravel and what she's up to. She's been having her fingers in a bunch of mining pies. Across the Eurasian continent for the most part, and precious metals for the most part, but she's also got some goin' in North America and in less-precious minable commodities. She's sold some neodymium and thorium to Victor Marton—one of the bigwigs in T.H.R.U.S.H.-Europe, in case you haven't flipped through your who's-who of evildoers in a while."_

"Can you give me some specific countries where Ravel's done business? I want to cross-check some locations with Ashley Slate's movements."

 _"Abso-tutely."_ Gerry whistled briefly, over the sound of a keyboard clacking. _"Let's see… we got Ireland, England, France, Deutschland, Swisse, India, Russia, China… enough for ya, hotshot?"_

"I think so. Thanks, Gershwin."

 _"Toodle-oo, Napoleon Francis."_

Napoleon replaced his communicator just as Constance and Illya came in from the kitchen.

"Oh, Francis, I was just telling Ilia that I hope you'll not be bored, spending most of the day in town. Marlborough's lovely, but none of the big things most tourists might go for. I'd offer you my car, but I've got to go into work soon."

Napoleon shook his head confidently. "Bookstores, old timey churches, and assorted other historical buildings to gape at… I think we'll be fine. Besides, Ilia usually does a fair job of keeping me entertained."

Illya bit down a smirk. "That takes care of one of us, then."

Napoleon briefly affected a wounded expression before wishing Mark's mom a good day and heading to the door. Illya followed suit after offering Constance his most innocent smile, pulling on his black jacket and muttering at Napoleon's red plaid coat, "Lumberjack," as he sidled past Solo and out the door.

"Alright," Solo announced at the end of the driveway, brandishing his phone. "Map, activate."

Kuryakin scoffed, heading down the road. "If you were a real man, you'd let the accumulation of magnetite in your head serve as your natural compass in getting us there."

Solo scoffed back as he quickly caught up. "Why can't you let _your_ iron skull—I mean, biological magnetite deposit—lead us there?"

"Anemia. I'm excused."

"Well, my excuse is that evolutionary migration aids aren't high-resolution enough to guide us along winding country lanes. So: map."

"Are you certain you'd not rather be stubborn and get us lost, then be hypermasculine and refuse to ask for directions?"

Napoleon nudged the Russian's elbow, offering a bemused expression once he had his attention. "Why are you highlighting-slash-questioning my masculinity all of a sudden?"

"I always highlight-slash-question your masculinity." He glanced over to Napoleon's screen. "Are you sure you'd not rather get lost? It would be terribly macho of you." The corners of his mouth tilted up as he leaned in long enough to add in a lower voice, "Perhaps I'd find it… attractive."

Radar sounding off at the blunt effort to appeal to his libido, Napoleon mused, "Someone is trying to get his way without telling me why." He tapped himself on the chin. "Why could you want us to get lost? We're spending the day in Marlborough… going to have a late lunch with—a-ha!"

Illya sighed at the finger thrust into the air.

"You don't want to see Ashley again," the American guessed. The responding silence suggested the affirmative, so he went on. "Hate to break it to you, but Mark's house is less than a thirty-minute walk to the restaurant, and we don't have to be there for over five hours. It would be quite the enterprise for anyone to get _that_ lost."

"I thought you liked a challenge."

Napoleon bumped their shoulders together. "I've got one, thanks. You agreed yesterday to meet Ashley and Robin again. 'Fraid I have to hold you to that, chou."

"I know. This was the easier way for me to express my reluctance, as compared to the option of making such a statement outright."

"Ah." Napoleon smiled gently at the admission. He personally didn't see how this roundabout route of getting him to guess the truth was easier than Illya saying it himself, but if the convolution helped Kuryakin eventually work around to the heart of the matter, that was good enough for him. "He did sound very apologetic over the phone, if that helps. And his movements seem to be in keeping with Ms. Ravel's business operations, so there's at least some chance that yesterday represented a cry for help, of sorts."

"I suppose."

"Hey, look."

Illya followed the gesture to a sparrow perched on a bush along the side of the pavement opposite the street.

" _Horobchyk_ ," Solo recalled the Ukrainian name for the animal. He swapped his phone to his other hand, using the nearer arm to drape across the blond's shoulders. "Cute, but nothing compared to my _horobchyk_."

Illya sighed again. He'd almost forgotten that, for the better part of the cab ride from their apartment to the airport, he had sunk to the level of topping off the American's supply of endearments. "I believe 'shot myself in the foot' is the most appropriate expression for this situation."

"Yes, but I love you regardless of your podiatric health, so hopefully you can find some solace in that."

"Do you think I will forget?"

Napoleon tilted his head in a silent question.

"You… say it a lot."

"That I love you," Solo guessed. At the nod this prompted, he said, "I mean it every time."

"I am not making inquiries into your sincerity. I am curious as to why you feel the need to remind me of it constantly. Or perhaps it is usual to say it with such frequency." He frowned at the pavement in thought, then looked up as an arm draped over his shoulders.

"You've mentioned that, before you came to New York, you didn't have many friends."

"Any," Illya corrected simply and wondered to himself why Napoleon seemed almost to grimace.

"You've further mentioned that your folks never said it, and you don't have many other relatives who could prospectively have said it."

"Any." He almost stumbled as Napoleon stopped walking abruptly.

"Any at all, or any who might be inclined to—"

"Any at all." He raised his eyes as Solo shifted until they were face-to-face, meeting the oddly sad brown gaze with a questioning eyebrow-raise.

"I say that I love you because I do. I say it so often since I'm guessing you haven't heard it much."

"At all." Illya frowned as Napoleon brushed some hair from his forehead and kissed the cleared spot. "Is something wrong with that? It is not as though I've suffered for wont of having certain words spoken to me."

"Everyone deserves to feel loved. I want to make sure you do."

"Everyone?"

"You do."

Illya shook his head and offered stiffly, "No. You are kind. You deserve it."

"Only as much as you—"

"And that is why you have faith in a capitalistic socioeconomic system."

"Uh… what?"

"Because you are kind and generous, you think others are as well, and thus the collective emotional and financial generosity will ensure that everyone has fair opportunities or, in the event that they run into hardship, that they will be taken care of until they can reclaim a grasp on their bootstraps."

Napoleon smirked a bit. "That's what I think, is it?"

"Yes. You are optimistic and have great faith in the goodness of humanity."

"And that's a bad thing because it runs counter to your socialistic ideology?"

"No. It is good for use as a personal philosophy and can play some part in an economy but is a poor basis for overarching governmental policies."

"Alright then, Mr. Lack-of-faith-in-humanity, let us consider the matter of guarding guardians." Even if it did smell like a distraction from their previous topic of conversation.

"Let's."

* * *

 _Marlborough, high street_

 _Afternoon_

That was them, he supposed. He'd seen them pass by a few times and taken note of the pair, but he'd held back on making the approach: they'd stuck close to each other but hadn't been making physical contact until now.

As soon as the brown-haired man in the red coat put an arm around his blond companion, Jonathan Hart headed over.

* * *

Napoleon gave a start as someone knocked his elbow, then turned to find a man of about average height, without an apology in his face or on his lips.

"William Shakespeare?" the stranger asked.

"Francis Bacon," Napoleon responded to (what sounded to be) his fellow American with a grin, taking this as a guerilla word-association game. Then he responded with a frown to having a small leather bag shoved into his chest. "What's the big—hey!"

Solo hurried after the taller man, and Kuryakin took long enough strides to keep up well enough without adding to the developing spectacle. When the stranger did not deign to acknowledge the small parade building up behind him, Napoleon jogged forward a few more steps and took the man by the elbow.

"Excuse me, sir, but I think you, ah, _lost_ something." Napoleon held up the bag.

The corners of the man's mouth drew downward. "I said Shakespeare. You said Bacon." He pulled his arm away. "Take the damn money and tell your boss to leave me alone."

Illya glanced at Napoleon. "Have you been indulging in a spot of extortion behind my back, Francis?"

Napoleon stepped out to block the man from walking off again. "Look, pal, I don't know what you're up to, but you're up there alone. I don't want any damn money from you and I think my boss would be extremely confused if I told him that some random guy I met in England wants him to bugger off."

"Stop messing with me before I get irked with you," the random guy snapped. "Hart Warehousing. Step off!"

Upon being shoved aside, Napoleon muttered, "Speaking of irked…" before reaching to grab the man on the shoulder, whereupon his nose was met by a fist. He stumbled back a step, then instinctively wound up to return the blow, only to freeze when Illya was suddenly in the middle, manipulating the stranger around until the offending limb was securely locked behind the puncher's back.

"As you have exhausted both fight and flight as options," Kuryakin said, "perhaps we can now reach a more productive stage of our interaction. Is that acceptable?"

"Productive?" the man echoed, wincing a bit when he tried to move and found that that was not the best idea.

"I refer to talking, of course. Perhaps you can explain why you felt the need to abruptly gift my friend with a purse. Perhaps we could serve a higher purpose than as punching bags for you to vent your rage. Acceptable?"

"If the alternative is having my elbow snapped, then yeah."

"Excellent. Then I will hold you to your word and release your arm. Agreed?"

The man shifted his balance, winced again, and nodded, "Agreed."

Illya immediately loosed his hold and took a step to the side, staying close to the sore arm as a (pre)cautionary measure. "Perhaps we talk there," he suggested with an indicative gesture.

Napoleon frowned. "Looks like an alley. You want us to talk in a shady alley?"

"That would be appropriate, as we are presumably about to discuss some variety of bribery or payoff. However, it is unfortunately Oxford Street, not Oxford Alley. Please," he added to the stranger with another gesture to the street that was, disappointingly, not a shady alley.

The trio walked a short way up the street and sat on a set of stairs leading up to a churchyard. Solo set the leather bag next to the man who'd so recently attempted to foist it upon him.

"So." Napoleon tapped at the bag. "What's the idea?"

The man snorted. "I should ask you that. Brown-haired man. With a blond. Responding to the codewords."

"Okay. I apologize for my genetics, this other guy's genetics, and happening to be aware of the irony of my name. Your turn."

"I don't know as I should tell you," the man demurred, picking up the bag. "Sorry for the mix-up. And for punching you in the face. You're bleeding, by the way."

Napoleon put one hand on the bag as an implied suggestion for the stranger to stick around a bit longer. "I do some work in law enforcement. Maybe I could help."

Illya took a tissue from his pocket and pressed it to the slightly bloody nose. "And I would advise that you accept that help. There are several stories we could tell our friends about Francis's nose, and we might be more inclined toward charitability if we can understand your situation."

The man's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Are you threatening to get the police involved? And what do you mean by 'work in law enforcement'? You a cop, Francis Bacon?" At the smile half-hidden behind a tissue, he added, "FBI? Meter maid? Pet detective?"

"None of the above," Napoleon admitted, taking the tissue-holding duty upon himself. "Maybe you can tell us what your problem is, then we can figure out if we can help or if we could at least find someone who can help."

The man shrugged. "Why not? I'm already reduced to wandering the English countryside, punching total strangers in the face. It couldn't hurt.

"My name is Jonathan Hart. I own Hart Warehousing, and I was reviewing our operations in Germany. We discovered one of our biggest clients was storing weapons parts with us—stuff that tends to be illegal more often than it's legal—and they realized pretty fast that we'd noticed it.

"Now they're holding our main building in Germany. Ten employees are being held hostage and our valued customer has threatened to start killing them if anyone calls the authorities or attempts to go in or out of the warehouse. I managed to talk them into accepting a payoff: I refund all the money they've spent on storage with Hart Warehousing, plus help fund the relocation of their little toys, plus twice that as a gesture of my good will, and they'll lay off."

Napoleon lowered the tissue, frowning. "And you had to come from Germany to England to make the payoff?"

"They wanted cash and didn't want an electronic transaction, or to trust the international post. I guess they figured me coming in person would prove I was taking them seriously. Plus, who the hell would believe it before it was too late? I'd get detained for whatever money-laundering activities the authorities would suspect me of, and in the meantime they could clear out the warehouse and kill my employees." He shrugged. "So, Francis Bacon, Fashion Police or whatever you are. You think this falls under your jurisdiction?"

"Might do, Mr. Hart, might do. What happens to be the name of this… temperamental client of yours?"

"Canary Mining Equipment."

"Ca—ow!" Napoleon grabbed the foot that had just been kicked by a Russian and complained, "Haven't I been wounded enough for one day?"

"I did not intend to strike so harshly," Illya said, looking as close as he ever got to appearing contrite. "Now that I have both your attention, however, I can confirm that this case could indeed fall under Mr. Bacon's jurisdiction."

"Could it, now?" Solo returned.

"And just who are you, anyway?" Hart asked the blond.

"Ilia. Davidovich," Kuryakin supplied. "Canary Mining Equipment… I have come across the name previously and it seems the sort of organization that might be inclined to bizarre ransom demands."

Napoleon suggested, "A subsidiary of the known and beloved…?"

Illya nodded once. A company known to have had several dealings with T.H.R.U.S.H.

"Ah. Well, then, Mr. Hart, you're in luck. I'll just make a quick call and we can get started on ending your hostage crisis."

Hart grasped Solo's arm before he could rise to a full stand. "Hold on. I still don't know who the hell you actually are or who you work for. How do I know you're not a Canary spy, and you're not going to call in some goons to beat me up for spilling the story?"

"Mr. Hart, I am not authorized to go around telling people willy-nilly who I work for. And I feel that you can be moderately confident in my not being out to get you, seeing as Mr. Davidovich has demonstrated that he can incapacitate you enough to allow me to freely rough you up without having to call in additional goons."

Hart fixed Illya with a look that clearly questioned how that scrawny guy had managed to incapacitate him in the first place, so the Russian offered, "I would be willing to demonstrate again in the interest of curing your incredulity, if you think that would aid you in placing some faith in Mr. Bacon. However, perhaps you would prefer to take us at our word that it takes less than an army to do you harm."

"Okay, so a stick figure and an Elizabethan writer could do me in," the warehouseman conceded. "How do I know you won't be calling in a windowless van or something to disappear me?"

Napoleon glanced skyward. "Look, pal, if you don't agree to us helping you, we'll just end up helping you behind your back. How about we keep it open and aboveboard so you can help provide any relevant information, okay now?"

Hart glared. "What's open and aboveboard about your running off to call in to your boss or whatever to decide whether or not you can tell me about this alleged law enforcement agency that can allegedly help me?"

"I believe the time for complete openness passed when you opted to pay off a criminal organization rather than alerting the proper authorities," Illya put in.

"If I went to the police, they'd start picking off my people," was the snapped response.

"If you are capable of making the effort of coming to England and following convoluted ransom delivery instructions, you could have made a comparable effort in the direction of surreptitiously notifying someone who could be of assistance."

Hart snorted. "Apparently I did both in one sweep, if you two are to be believed. So, fine then, Mr. Bacon. Go call Big Brother. I'm sure Mr. Davidovich will make certain I'm still here when you return."

Napoleon nodded—"Be right back."—and went a short ways down the street, far enough to ensure Hart wouldn't overhear him but close enough to remain within eyeshot.

"So," Hart commented after a few seconds of silence.

"If you are hoping for small talk, I'm afraid that is not my forte."

Hart nodded and, after a few more moments of quiet, remarked, "I knew a Davidovich in high school. Became a rabbi."

"He did or you did?" Illya enquired politely.

"He did. What I guess I'm getting at is, you don't look like a Davidovich to me."

"Davidovich is not an exclusively Jewish surname, if that is what you are truly 'getting at', Mr. Hart. In any case, if you are truly so interested in my family tree, I will be more than happy to start on a history of my ancestors. In the true spirit of Slavic literature, it will be long and depressing."

"Well, that, uh—that's nice of you…"

Illya raised his brows. "Do you actually wish me to do so?"

"No! No, thank you. Thanks, but no thanks."

* * *

 _A short ways down the street…_

"How should we proceed, sir?" Napoleon asked into his communicator.

 _"See what you can do from your end toward making the payment,"_ Waverly's voice said. _"In the meantime, we'll have some of ours in Germany look into the hostage situation and see if we can effect a rescue. Call in again when you have more information."_

"Yes, sir."

* * *

 _Lurking in the background…_

"Text him."

Ashley Slate side-eyed Elinor Crane. "What and why?"

"Hart was talking like people might be killed if a payment isn't made. We can't sacrifice them for ourselves, so we'll press Francis and Ilia into making the drop and hope they'll still work around to getting us out of this."

"That answers the why, and I agree. How about the what?"

Crane took his phone as he produced it, handed it back long enough for him to unlock the screen, then took it again to compose the text.

* * *

 _A short ways up the street…_

"Well, Mr. Hart," Napoleon said upon his return, "the boss gave the go-ahead. The U.N.C.L.E. is at your service."

Hart accepted the card handed to him— _Napoleon Solo, U.N.C.L.E. trainee_ —and then handed it back with half a smile. "Okay. U.N.C.L.E. I've heard of you guys. But I'm not sure which of your names is more believable, Mr.—"

"Call me Francis and bear in mind that I'm here to help you and your unfortunate employees." He replaced the card in the back of his phone case, then looked at the phone screen when the device buzzed.

 _Blocked: I see you._

 _Blocked: Follow orders in subsequent messages or HW is done._

 _Blocked: Stakeholders meeting moved to Friday. Payment on Thursday for EA support._

"HW for Hart Warehousing," Napoleon guessed, "but I don't know about EA."

Illya helpfully listed off, "Exaampere, executive assistant, Environment Agency, Evangelical Alliance, Eusko Alkartasuna, engineering aide, Electronic Arts…"

"And which do you think is actually a plausible possibility, based on there being a stakeholders meeting?"

Illya thought a moment. "Environment Agency. Evangelical Alliance. Eusko Alkartasuna…"

"One way to find out," Solo decided, tapping at the screen and then looking up again. "Euska-what?"

"Alkartasuna. Catalan independence organization."

"Why do you know that?"

Illya shrugged. "I had trouble sleeping one night and fell into a Wikipedia hole. Not the most reliable source, I know, but there seems no reason to suspect an elaborate scheme to manufacture a group of that name."

Napoleon nodded and turned his attention back to his phone as he typed, _Where and when?_ before declaring, "And so we wait." The phone wasn't even back in his pocket when it went off again. "Or we don't."

 _Blocked: Thurs morning 9. Friends Bridge, U Reading. Final._

"Back to school for us, I guess," Napoleon told the blond, showing him the screen. He added to Hart, "We'll make the payoff for you, and in the meantime some of our agents in Germany will check out the situation at your warehouse."

"I'm going with you," Hart decided.

"Why?"

"Probably no good reason. Probably I can trust you not to make off with the dough. But I was told my people would be released as soon as the money gets where it's supposed to go. This seems like its final destination, so I want to see when it happens and make sure the confirmation text arrives as soon as it does."

"Might be dangerous."

"Then you could use an extra man on your side."

"Allow me to consult with my personal advisor." Napoleon turned to Illya. "You _will_ give me nonpersonal advice, won't you?"

"Would that not then make me your impersonal advisor?" the Russian wondered.

"If it'll make you give me an opinion, sure."

"If we do not welcome him to join us," Illya reasoned, "it seems likely that he will instead stalk us to the meeting. We may as well keep him where we can see him."

"Okay," Solo returned to Hart, "you're in. But we're running the exchange so you listen to us, got it? We're the professionals."

"More or less," Kuryakin parenthesized. At Hart's rather worried expression (the _trainee_ printed on the card was presumably still fresh in the fellow's memory), he clarified, "Him more, me less."

"And you even less," Solo pointed out to Hart, "so don't get any bright ideas about going solo, _capisce_?" He checked the time on his phone and then continued tapping around on the screen. "Well, I hate to conspire and run, Mr. Hart, but we have a lunch date we ought to be getting to. We'll meet you tomorrow at eight at… this place."

Hart peered at the screen as it was shown to him, making a mental note of Park Eat, not far from Friends Bridge according to the map Napoleon had pulled up.

"To make sure we all get there…" Solo stuck his hand in the leather bag, leafed through the notes within, and produced what felt to him to be about half the money. "…we'll each keep part of it until we meet up tomorrow." He deposited the loose notes in an inner pocket of his coat and handed the bag to Hart. "Then you give back your half at the restaurant and we'll work out how you can keep an eye on us from a safe distance during the exchange."

"Okay." Hart extended a hand, first shaking Solo's and then Kuryakin's. "I guess I'm trusting you on this, so thanks."

* * *

Napoleon tried not to smile when Ashley winced at being greeted with a bone-crushing handshake from Illya, and he later tried not to look unnaturally pleased when the Russian stuck the drinks list in his face and asked Solo which one seemed closest to the wine he'd had last night.

Aside from those incidents, Napoleon's efforts were concentrated on delicately poking into Ashley Slate and Robin Fenster's affairs. When did you guys meet? Here's a vague rundown of what I've allegedly been up to as Francis Bacon the Daytime Talk Producer, so how about sharing a little about your work? Done anything interesting lately, outside of work?

The answers were detailed enough to be believable, if not somewhat unenlightening. Overall, he got the impression that they were being rather cagey, but his less-delicate efforts (casually bringing up a case of a lawyer being caught up in a client's underworld dealings) failed to flush out anything resembling beans being spilled.

Towards the end of the meal, Solo considered coming straight out and guessing at the situation: maybe it was like his early conversation with Illya, and they would admit the truth if directly confronted with it. Ultimately, he decided not to, in the event that Ashley Slate was the sole victim and would be endangered by Robin Fenster's realizing that somebody was catching on to his plight.

* * *

 _Swindon_

 _Evening_

"Well, pleasant as it was to make nice with Francis and Ilia, they've not seemed to extended a helping hand our direction," Ashley said.

"No, but they're suspicious. Francis, at least. He was about half a step from shining a flashlight in our faces and demanding we fess up."

"Still. Now what?"

"We'll follow them as they make the payoff," Crane decided. "Covertly, of course. Until they start headed back afterward: then we'll make sure they 'catch' us watching and that should settle everything."

* * *

 _Reading_

 _Thursday morning_

"Mate, so fucking professional."

April snorted quietly. Huddled together in a bush to keep an eye on the payoff from a slight distance, Mark's whispered comment was half joke, half accurate representation of their duties and responsibilities as U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Their vantage point also allowed them to keep Jonathan Hart (ensconced behind a bench) in their sights, both for Hart's safety and their own, in the event that he hadn't been strictly honest about his intentions.

At nine a.m. on the dot, a figure appeared at the far end of the bridge and stood there for about a minute. Napoleon and Illya stepped up to their end of the bridge and the former waved once, holding up the bag of money briefly. The figure nodded and held up a single finger, so Napoleon muttered, "Wait here," to Illya and started forward, guessing from the other man's motion that they'd be meeting in the middle.

Each man was about a quarter of the way from his starting point when Napoleon slowed his gait. The other guy looked sort of… maybe familiar. The clothes looked like what Mark's brother had been wearing when he darted out of the house that morning—and from beneath the baseball cap a few dark curls were poking out…

"Arthur?" Napoleon ventured, slowing almost to a halt.

The other man came to a full stop, lowered the sunglasses that were possibly too successful in blocking out light on this cloudy day, and returned, "Fuck my life— _Francis_?"

Napoleon came a little closer before settling himself against the railing to pensively watch as Arthur abruptly half-turned and made several frantic slicing motions across his neck. Solo followed the aim of the gesture and focused his gaze on a tree near the far side of the bridge. A dot of light suggestive of a camera was just visible between the branches from this distance, and it went dark a second later. There was a brief rustling, then Cynthia dropped to the ground and came over to join Arthur.

Napoleon scratched at his temple and was about to start in on a thorough questioning in regard to the meaning of this, but he was distracted by loud footsteps coming from behind. Mark stormed past to steal the American's thunder with, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Cynthia countered.

"Apparently I'm here to catch my family accepting—what the hell do you even have that's worth a payoff?"

"Nothing," Arthur admitted. "We were posing as officials with the Environment Agency. Got into contact with Canary Mining—the company wanting to reopen the McCoy Colliery. Right now, it seems a fifty-fifty shot that the sale will go through. We wanted to cut the chances of that happening by showing that the company was willing to engage in shady dealings for it."

"Do you know where this came from?" Mark snapped, snatching the bag out of Napoleon's hand to violently shake it. "This came from a ransom payment! If this don't go to bribe you idiots, a passel of warehouse workers in Germany will be held indefinitely or murdered!"

Napoleon mouthed, _"Passel?"_ at his fellow man from U.N.C.L.E.

Cynthia looked at Arthur.

Arthur looked at Cynthia.

He cleared his throat.

She smiled. "Oops."

"Oops?" Mark echoed. " _Oops_? No. No, no, no. You do not get to _oops_ your way out of this!"

As Mark launched into lecture mode, Napoleon looked back to share an exasperated look with Illya and was briefly satisfied in that regard—until the _kids these days_ expression froze on the Russian's face and the blue eyes shifted. Then Solo suddenly dreaded the prospect of turning around again.

He made the turn nonetheless and startled the self-involved Slate siblings with an exclamation of, "Max, fancy meeting you out here!"

The Brits all turned.

"Hi, Francis," Max smiled. "Nice to see you again." He pulled back the coat over his forearm to reveal a handgun pointed down the bridge. "No sudden movements, okay? Hey, Ilia!"

Napoleon glanced (not too suddenly) back to see Illya clearly caught in the act of sneaking off.

"It's nice to see you again, too, Ilia. Could you come over here with your buddies? Then all of you come over here, single file, and give me the money. And no funny business, huh? Hands visible and all that kinda stuff."

A silent sigh and loud eyeroll later, Illya complied. As he drew closer, Napoleon pushed off the railing and stepped to the front, leading the procession of unhappy young people across the bridge.

"What's all this, Max?" Napoleon asked as they approached. "I thought we'd established a friendly little rapport on the flight over."

"Miss R sent me out here to monitor the proceedings and intervene if anything went off from the plan. You and Ilia weren't supposed to be here, you know," Max explained, shaking his head disappointedly, "and none of these other folks look like people from the Environment Agency, so I'll have to take you along back to the office. Gotta make sure everything's on the up-and-up. Well." He rubbed at his chin with his free hand and amended, "Maybe not up-and-up, but how Miss R wants it, see?"

"I think I'm starting to."

* * *

 **A/N** : Thanks a bunch for reading! I'd put more exclamation points but this website is kind of a pain about multiple exclamation points!


	4. Act IV: Mr The Ripper

**A/N** : I always reread previous chapters so I can make some effort toward having continuity—and boy, was #3 rough going. Thanks for coming along to the last chapter in spite of that train wreck, and hopefully this one's a bit better. Or, at least, not worse, :)

Chapter warnings: Brief reference to suicide; minor self-inflicted injury

* * *

 **Act IV** : Mr. The Ripper lends a hand

 _Reading_

 _8:05 a.m._

"Gee, Max, is the hardware really necessary?"

"There's five of you and one of me." Max thought for a moment as he herded the group along at gunpoint, the gun being once again hidden under his coat to avoid alarming the university students they occasionally passed. "Well, there'll be Smitty, too, but he'll be up front driving while I sit with you guys. Anyway, it's easier to keep a bunch of people in line when you're the one with the little friend, if you get my drift."

Napoleon nodded. It seemed there was a possibility that Max didn't realize he and Mark were also armed.

"I mean, I don't really think you kids are dangerous, and I'm sure you'd come along real nice since all we're doing is figuring out the situation here, but Miss R ain't as trusting as I am, and she's the boss, see?"

Solo hummed in thought. "Not really. If she thinks we're so dangerous, why didn't you call in the bobbies?"

Max chuckled. "Hell, Francis, now I know you're a decent type—we'll get everything all square with you and Ilia real quick. I can't call the cops 'cause I was overseeing a payment Miss R wanted to make to a government agency. Payoff sorta thing, I mean."

"Why only Francis and Ilia?" Mark demanded. "Why can't the rest of us get squared real quick?"

"You might, too," Max responded patiently, "but the way I see it, these two—" A quick gesture between Cynthia and Arthur. "—are either acting on behalf of the government office, or they were posing as officials and were trying to steal from Miss R. So they're either okay or in for some trouble." He nodded to Mark. "You, I don't know about. Were you with these two or with Francis?"

Recognizing that any hesitation might seem suspicious, Mark hoped his gut made the right decision as he said, "I'm with these two… or, rather, they're with me. Whoever is gonna do the questioning can direct all inquiries to me. These two don't know what they're into."

Arthur pulled a bit of a face but nodded at Mark's assertion, as their current predicament was certainly a bit beyond what he'd anticipated. Cynthia, on the other hand: "Hey!"

"Save it, missy."

"Aw, go easy on the kid," Max said. "Live and learn."

"That is indeed something to aspire to," Illya muttered at Napoleon, who chuckled at the dire intonation as they approached a parking lot.

"Here's our ride." Max nodded them toward a white van with black lettering ("Canary Mining, Ltd.") and a cartoonish black canary perched in the C. "Hi, Smitty," he called to the square-jawed man who emerged from the front of the vehicle to open the back doors for their guests. Smitty produced a plastic bin from the rear and Max said, "You guys can just put your cellphones in there, and any other electronic things you got on you."

As the devices were dropped into the container, Max added, "Maybe you should just put all your metal stuff—there's detectors in the building. Take your coats off. You can hold onto those, and you'll get all your stuff back when Miss R gives the OK."

The U.N.C.L.E. communicators joined the other electronics in the tub: the communicators looked like normal cellular headsets unless a knowledgeable technician took them apart, and that generally didn't happen unless one was suspected of being an agent, which didn't seem to be a concern just yet, seeing as they hadn't been searched for weapons—

"Frisk 'em?" Smitty asked.

"They're clean," Max promised as he cast a quick eye over the now-coatless group, and Napoleon and Mark shared a look but otherwise refrained from reacting. They decided the man was:

One, slightly stupid;

Two, incredibly trusting;

Or three, something less than passionate about his work. Based on their in-flight exchange, Solo was banking on the last option being a factor in this fortunate non-frisking event, and he underlined his mental note to watch for an opportunity to get Max to help them escape if they couldn't manage the task on their own in short order.

Once Smitty popped the lid onto the container and headed back to the front, Max motioned for them to get it. "Sit anywhere but leave one of the back seats for me. Buckle up."

* * *

 _8:05 a.m._

"Did you drive here?"

"Yes—"

"Where'd you park?"

"Lot 2—"

"We'll take yours."

"Could you tell me who the hell you are first?"

April didn't look up from her phone and, once she'd found Car Park 2 on the map she'd pulled up, started heading in that direction as she compromised, "I'll fill you in on the move." She finally looked at him very briefly as he hurried to keep up. "Mr. Hart, I presume?"

"Yes. We're going to follow them, right? You sure it's not better to try and catch up on foot?"

"We can't risk a confrontation here," April denied, speeding up to a jog as she split her attention between studying the map and watching her footing. "I don't know how gun-happy our friendly neighborhood kidnapper is, so we'll follow them out to wherever they're going. Is your car manual or auto?"

"Manual."

"Shit," April hissed. Her gear-shifting capabilities were passable, but not as strong as she'd like in an emergency situation when she would also be having to keep a hand free for other tasks, so she asked, "How's your pursuit driving?"

"Let's find out." As they approached the lot, Hart pulled the key fob from his pocket and pressed the button to make the car beep. His new companion accordingly ran toward the vehicle and, as they got in, he started the ignition and asked, "When are you—"

"Whiteknights Road," she cut in. "The way they're headed, if their vehicle's parked on University property, they'll have to take Whiteknights. Go past Park Eat, right on Upper Redlands, right on Whiteknights, and pull over just past the intersection with Belle Avenue. That should give us the best vantage point, and hopefully they're using a company car—there's Redlands."

He made the turn, muttered, "Right on Whiteknights," to assure her that he'd internalized the directions, and asked, "So can you tell me who the hell you are now, or do you prefer keeping a little mystery to spice things up?"

April gave him the once-over, decided she wasn't entirely sure how much she could trust this guy, and said, "Jennifer Edwards." She took out her communicator and hooked the receiver into place. "I'm making a call. Just past Belle Ave," April reminded before tapping the communicator on. "Overseas relay. Open Channel S."

 _"Channel S open,"_ crackled into her ear. _"Hi, April."_

"Gerry, everyone in my traveling party except for me has been abducted by someone who probably works for Gervaise Ravel. Two civilians were taken with them. I'm with Jonathan Hart, attempting—hold on." April pointed out the windshield and told Hart, "The Canary Mining van—that's the one."

"Should I try to be subtle?" Hart asked.

"Don't tailgate, but keep them in sight. If I think they're onto us, I'll let you know and advise accordingly." She returned to her interrupted conversation. "Gerry, we found the vehicle we think they're in. It belongs to one of Ravel's companies."

 _"Stay in pursuit. Give updates as you determine their direction. Use Channel D the next time you call in. Anything else for now?"_

"Heading east."

 _"Canary Mining's got an office in London. You might be heading there. I'll inform Waverly."_

* * *

 _8:07 a.m._

Crane allowed herself a few moments of entertainment. This wasn't anything to be amused by, she knew, but everything had pretty much sucked for the past year or so, so at this point she'd take what she could get in the way of humor.

She still had some modicum of sensitivity and decorum, however, so she kept her face impassive as Ashley Slate wordlessly gesticulated at the recently vacated Friends Bridge, started making some attempt at charades when words still failed to make their way out of him, and earned several side-eyes and wide berths as students recently released from lecture walked to their next destinations.

About a minute later, just as Ashley had managed to blurt out, "What—now—now what?" his phone went off and Crane promptly plucked the device from his coat pocket.

The number displayed on the screen was blocked, but she had one guess as to who it was and was soon proved right. As soon as she accepted the call, Gervaise Ravel greeted her with, _"Where are you? Never mind; I don't care. Wherever you are, get back to Swindon. I don't normally do house calls but, when I do, I expect to be greeted in person. You better be there before I am."_

Ravel cut the connection and Crane replaced Slate's phone, grabbing him by the arm to urge him along before he could get a word in. "We're going to your place. Pedal to the metal, Slate."

Although he didn't physically resist Crane's hustling him along to the carpark they'd used, Slate did finally have enough of a grip on his vocabulary to protest, "What about Mark? And Ilia and Francis? And I think that was Jennifer who ran off with that other guy—and then there's those other folks on the footbridge—"

"Dammit, fine." Crane kept tugging him in the same direction but made a conversational about-face. "You decide where we take the car. Your people are probably being taken to Ravel's offices in London. She wants us to meet her at your place. If we aren't there, I'd say there's better than a ninety percent chance you'll end up trying to rescue them on your own."

"You mean you'll ditch me?"

"In a manner of speaking." Crane released him and they got into Slate's car. "This—" She tapped at the choker around her neck. "—has poison in it. Ravel can kill me by having the stuff injected remotely."

"You can't remove it?" Her glare providing an adequate answer, Slate started the ignition and tried a different question. "Okay, you're ninety percent dead if we don't go home. What's the chances she'll kill Mark and his friends if we don't go to London?"

"Depends how they play their cards."

"I'm trying to weigh options here, Miss Crane. Gimme something to compare."

Crane hesitated. "I'd give a sixty percent chance of them all making it out unharmed if we don't help them, and I don't know how much we—or you—could improve that."

Slate backed out of their parking space. He exhaled through his nose. "Right. Swindon. Pedal to the metal. But once we've kept up appearances, I expect you to have some idea on how to extricate a few people from Ms. Ravel's custody. Get thinking."

* * *

 _8:10 a.m._

This was a very nice van.

Okay, so the seats—three rows, three seats in each row, two on the left and one on the right of the aisle, quality-looking leather storage pouches in the backs—were probably upholstered in this lovely red velvet to conceal any blood that might just happen to spill on them, but still. It was a very nice van.

And sure, the soft ambient lighting from the surprisingly elegant stained-glass-looking fixtures running along the roof of the van was only necessary because the windows were all blocked off—and the windows were probably paneled over to prevent captives from seeing where they were going—and the row with the driver's seat was blocked off so they couldn't see out the windshield either—but still. A very nice van.

And Napoleon Solo wasn't one to withhold his appreciation for the finer things in life.

"Hey, now this is a very nice van," Napoleon said, cheerfully disregarding Arthur and Cynthia's _have you lost your freaking mind?_ expressions as they turned around in their front seats to stare at him. Mark and Illya didn't bother to look shocked, both because they knew better than that by now, and because they were otherwise occupied.

Illya—covertly, single-handedly, without looking—undoing Napoleon's ankle holster to allow Solo to twist around and keep his hands propped on the back of his seat, innocently within Max's line of vision.

Mark, cranking through ideas of how to remove and dispose of his own gun without Max noticing. Or maybe he could make a scene with his weapon once they exited the vehicle—unless they emerged in a private garage—and assuming the ever-cheerful Max wasn't also gun-happy—but then again—or—and—but—

Solo went on, "Is this a UK-exclusive model, do you know, or could I get something like this in the States?"

"'Fraid I can't help you there, Francis," Max returned. He glanced about approvingly. "It is a real nice one, though."

"On a more relevant note," Mark broke out of his thoughts to assert, "do you know if we'll be living long enough for Francis to go back to the States and look into buying a van?"

"Gee, I sure hope you will."

Napoleon grinned. "I'll take that as a solid 'maybe'. Ah, and out of curiosity: you mentioned that Ilia and I weren't supposed to be over at the bridge. Who was supposed to be there?"

"Can't remember their names," Max said. "A man and a lady who work for Miss R, but I only met them real quick once, since I'm from Miss R's New York office and they're from her London office. The gentleman looks a little like that fella—" He pointed a finger at Mark. "—but older, and he got darker hair. The lady's got red-blond hair. Bet she'd be real pretty if she didn't pack on the makeup like she does."

Ashley Slate and Robin Fenster. No question. Before Napoleon could resume his efforts to simultaneously make nice with Max and pump information from the man, a cheerful tune filled the van. Illya automatically supplied, " _Le tombeau de Couperin_ , first movement."

"When you mentioned Miss R had the same name of that composer guy," Max smiled, "I found this. Lotta his stuff's pretty gloomy, but this is alright. 'Scuse me." He answered his warbling phone, keeping his eyes and gun on the prisoners. "Hi, Miss R…. Yeah, we're on the way now…. Okay…. Sure thing, Miss R…."

He hung up and replaced the device, chuckling. "Gosh, Miss R sure is unhappy right now. She won't be with us at the office until at least noon, so maybe she'll be simmered-down a little by the time she's ready to meet you guys."

Illya tapped at the unfastened holster he'd set on the crevice between him and Napoleon. Once he'd caught Solo's attention, he gestured with an arched brow toward Max. _Are you certain you'd not rather shoot him?_

Napoleon responded with a miniscule, negative shake of the head, so Illya resumed his wait for Max to not look in their direction for more than five seconds. Maybe he'd have an opportunity to slip the gun into the seat pouch if someone besides Napoleon seemed keen on engaging their guard in conversation.

"Say, Max…"

Wish granted: as soon as Max looked to Mark, Illya finished the job and popped the weapon into the pocket on the back of the chair.

"…in light of the development with the metal detector, I feel I ought to let you know that I am, fact, armed."

Max chuckled. "There actually isn't a detector on the way we're going into the building, but thanks for telling me." (Illya narrowed his eyes and promptly set to subtly returning Napoleon's gun to its previous place on the American's person.) "Give it here."

Mark undid his ankle holster and reached over to place the thing in the hand Max extended.

"This'd look pretty bad if it turned out you had a weapon after I said we didn't hafta pat you down," Max commented, then grinned. "I got it! Here." He unholstered Mark's weapon, puttered around for a few moments, shook the bullets out, and handed the bullet-less gun back to the British man from U.N.C.L.E.

Mark accepted it with a face of plain shock.

"Put it back where it was," Max urged.

As Mark numbly checked the gun was secure in the holster and set to reattaching the strap, Napoleon wondered, "Couldn't he pretend it's loaded around anyone besides you, Max?"

"Way I see it, he's either more honest than Miss R or less honest than Miss R. More honest, and he won't have the nerve to go around with an unloaded gun to face people with loaded guns. Less honest, and he'd've already shot me up on the way from the footbridge to the van."

"Can't fault that logic," Napoleon remarked, then nudged Illya's foot with his own to ensure the Russian wouldn't argue the point.

Illya shut his mouth.

* * *

 _Swindon_

 _9:30 a.m._

"If the story I hear in London doesn't match yours, you're dead, Crane."

And with that, Gervaise Ravel slammed the door on the idiots. Idiots!

All they'd had to do was take money from Hart and give it to their contact from the Environment Agency.

Take the thing from the person and give it to the other person.

Easy.

Except to these idiots. Fools. Damn fools. Damn fools that let Hart give the money to someone else. Someone else, who the damn fools talked into making the payoff to the EA.

Well, not talked. Texted. How? Ravel wasn't sure, but Elinor Crane still had some U.N.C.L.E. tricks up her sleeve, so she was giving her and Slate the benefit of the doubt.

For now.

She'd get the Someone Elses' perspective on the matter soon enough, and it was still early.

She could still kill the damn fools before the day was out.

And that was something that could always boost her spirits.

* * *

 _Outside a building housing many legitimate businesses and also Canary Mining's offices_

 _9:45 a.m._

" _The Hart Warehousing situation has been resolved, all hostages recovered alive and well. A considerable cache of weapons recovered, as well. We shall keep the success quiet as long as possible—to avoid endangering Solo and the rest by sending Ms. Ravel into a rage—and then turn the matter over to Interpol and the German authorities."_

"Yes, Mr. Waverly."

" _Assess the situation in the office. Call for backup if necessary. Waverly out."_

April put away her communicator and said, "Your people in Germany are safe. Find a place to drop me and I—"

"There's no 'I', Jennifer. There's 'we'. Should I find somewhere to park and _we_ go in to get the rest of our people safe?"

Dancer weighed arguing the point, decided allowing Hart to help out with some preliminary reconnaissance wouldn't do any harm, and nodded.

* * *

Poor little corpse child.

Everything was cold. His extremities had gone numb, the skin on his face felt tight, and he could tell from these signals that he had suddenly come into possession of a pallor that could compete with—yes—a corpse.

He was no longer a child—no longer quite so little—but right now he could remember like it was yesterday. Remember Papa rubbing the cold little hands between his always-warm ones until he was successfully distracted from whatever had frightened him, until the circulation returned, until Papa declared his poor little corpse child banished in favor of his bright little Illyusha.

It was strange, how the loudest sound he heard—almost drowning out Max's mostly one-sided conversation with Smitty—could be his heart pounding. That meant blood was getting to his heart, which meant his heart was pumping it back out again, but somehow it didn't quite manage to get the color back in his skin—or sensation back into his hands and mouth—and that just didn't seem to make sense.

Then again, if his body made sense, he wouldn't be reacting this way to a lift.

Just calm down.

It's fine.

For now, they were on solid ground—underground—in the parking garage. That's fine.

And now they were in the elevator, but it wasn't moving, and the doors hadn't closed yet. That was fine.

And okay, now the doors were closing, but maybe—just maybe—Max would press the _2_ or the _3_ or—

Or the _39_. Of course.

Of course, the thirty-ninth floor. Three times thirteen, for bad luck, for bad news, for things going wrong, for the cables snapping and the damn death box plummeting down, down, down without anything to catch them, stop them, stop the freefall—

 _Breathe._

That was an idea.

" _Breathe,"_ and this time he realized it was Napoleon whispering at his ear, and he could feel how tight his chest was and that—yes—breathing would probably be a good thing to take up again sometime.

So he kept his eyes on the numbers above the elevator doors, focused on the shoulder Napoleon kept pressed to his own, and above all kept breathing, almost managing to achieve a stable respiratory rate by the time the doors opened. He even felt his feet as they walked out of the lift and to the Canary Mining office suite, within which Smitty disappeared into one room with the container of electronics while Max marched them through the door across the hall into another room.

A storage room.

Fairly large.

Large room, large windows, shelves and boxes and a few chairs stacked atop one another, and presumably with the primary purpose of storing office supplies, but also perfectly suitable for storing people in a pinch.

"You guys can wait in here until Miss R is ready for ya. I'm gonna lock the door, but me or someone else will be standing guard outside so just knock if you need water or the bathroom or somethin'. You can snoop around if you get bored, but it's just blank forms and boring stuff like that." Max grinned. "Hey, if you find some pens and paper, feel free to doodle. I know it's not up there with them phone games, but better'n nothing, right?"

Napoleon chuckled in return. "Max, you're almost enough to make being kidnapped enjoyable."

"Told ya I had a way with people. See you guys later."

As soon as Max shut the door, a surprisingly loud and long serious of _clanks_ signaled its being locked and strongly suggested that the old slide-a-credit-card-down-the-side trick wouldn't do a whole lot of good. There wasn't a keyhole on this side of the door, either, so trying to pick the lock was off the table. Seemed like a safety hazard, so perhaps Ravel had foreseen the possibility of hosting unwilling guests and installed this particular door to her own specifications.

The trio from U.N.C.L.E. accordingly set to searching out listening devices, alternative exits, or anything else of significance. Arthur and Cynthia occasionally followed after and peered at something that one of the others had inspected, more for something to do than anything else since they weren't really sure what this operation was geared toward.

"Nothing yet," Solo commented as he passed Kuryakin, who grunted in agreement and continued staring out the window. The brunet paused and followed the blond's line of vision as it scanned along the structural protrusions on the exterior walls. Barely holding a straight face, Napoleon informed him, "We are not scaling down the side of the building."

"But if we—"

"No." Maybe if they had some grappling equipment and everyone in their party had climbing experience… but neither of those was the case so Napoleon stressed, "Absolutely not."

Illya let out a breath. "You've no sense of adventure."

"You've no sense, full-stop."

Napoleon had just finished good-naturedly shaking his head and resuming his progress toward a metal shelf of boxes when Arthur recalled his attention with, "What's that?" His gaze switched quickly from Art to Illya at the Russian's sudden movement: hands being crammed into pockets.

"When Ilia was checking the blind, I thought I saw something… on his hands," Arthur explained, voice dwindling slightly as he noticed Illya's dark expression. The Brit tapped his fingertips to his palms as an indication for the American's benefit.

Napoleon crossed over to Illya, who promptly walked off behind the shelf the former had been about to examine. Solo followed to the semi-private segment of the room and Kuryakin presented his palms, allowing a clear view of the matching sets of cuts on each as he muttered, "In future I shall keep my nails trimmed in consideration of impromptu altercations with lifts."

Solo reached for the hands, then hesitated when they were jerked back. He turned his own hands over and waited until Illya rested his knuckles against the proffered palms to allow for a closer inspection.

"Not as bad as last time, but it's always the hands with you, isn't it?" Napoleon mused.

"I could break a toe next time if you would find that more invigorating."

"Thanks." Napoleon reached into one coat pocket with his left hand, into another pocket with his right, and produced antibiotic cream and a light pair of gloves. "For my delicate, lily-white hands in the misery of the British Isles," Solo explained the gloves, "and for my perpetually-wounded _horobchyk_ ," he supplied for the cream.

Before Napoleon could get the cap unscrewed and set to playing nurse, Illya took the small tube, squeezed a dollop onto one palm, and returned the cream so he could rub his palms together. He offered dryly, "Ointment but no bandages? How inconsiderate of you."

"I have two medium-size ones, not eight tiny ones that wouldn't get adhesive into an adjacent wound." Napoleon put the tube back in the pocket he'd retrieved it from. "Besides, you ever try to keep a band-aid on your palm? Hell of a job." He held up the gloves and Illya put them on to cover the wounds. "You're a hell of a job, too, but I like you anyway."

Illya smiled, and the wince he briefly lapsed into pulled his lips enough for Napoleon to notice a bit of red on a couple of teeth.

"Hold still a second."

"I didn't realize I was prancing about too exuberantly for you." As Solo grabbed his chin and started to lean in, he commented, "Is this really an appropriate time for that?"

"Just stay still, snarky." Napoleon used his free hand to carefully pull aside Illya's lower lip. When a blond eyebrow arched, he couldn't help but smile at the resulting distortion in the serious face, even as he took note of the bites inside. "It's not bleeding anymore. Was this from the elevator ride, too?"

Illya grunted irritably and, as soon as Napoleon withdrew his probing fingers, stated, "I was attempting to ground myself." He briefly held up his hands to include the cuts there in the statement.

"Ground?"

"Not lose myself to irrational fear."

"And the solution is to… draw blood?" Napoleon released his hold on Illya's chin as the Russian flicked his head away. "Have you mentioned this in your sessions?" With Dr. Boateng.

"'This' what?"

"Your thing with elevators. Your, uh, grounding techniques." The lack of eye contact seemed enough of an answer, so he asserted, "I'd strongly recommend you bring it up sometime, and you know that's an entirely reasonable suggestion."

Illya nodded curtly and resumed searching the room. Napoleon joined the Slates, gathered at the window, talking quietly.

"What are we gossiping about?" the American whispered.

Mark nodded at the glass. "Trying to figure where we are. We reckon London, East Side. Maybe near Whitechapel."

"Oh, good. Whitechapel. Maybe Mr. The Ripper could drop by and lend a hand."

Cynthia snorted. "Might be someone else's hand, though."

"He didn't dismember the victims, he—" Sensing Illya's gaze on him, and confirming it visually before the blue eyes shifted away quickly, Napoleon grinned and amended, "Ah, well, it's the thought that counts."

* * *

 _9:55 a.m._

"Hello." April smiled her brightest, which wasn't the easiest of feats as she leaned on the wall of the balcony onto which she'd followed Max, who'd come out here for a cigarette break. "Jennifer Edwards, freelance journalist. I noticed you were just in the Canary Mining office."

Max nodded, then politely turned his head to blow out a puff of smoke.

"Do you work there, by any chance?"

"Sure do, Miss. Doin' a story on us?"

April hummed and nodded. "How do you—what's your name?"

"Max."

"And how do you like working there, Max?"

"Had worse. Pays well. Get to talk a lot, and I'm kinda a people person."

As a light breeze blew Max's smoke into her face, April suppressed a cough by clearing her throat. "And what do you think of the… corporate culture?"

Max shrugged. "Not big on it, to be honest, but I'm not in the office a whole lot. I don't call any of the shots, neither. Just do what needs doin'."

"That sounds less than passionate—pardon me, Jennifer."

Dancer frowned as Jonathan Hart stepped out of the invisible box she'd relegated him to by the door. He was supposed to be a handy witness in case Max seemed inclined to throw her off the balcony, not become an active participant as she set out feelers for how receptive Max might be to lending a hand.

"Jonathan Hart, Hart Industries. You sound like a man who wouldn't mind a career change. How'd you like to work for me?"

Dancer raised a brow at Hart. "Nice subtle touch you got there."

Hart smirked. "Thank you." Back to Max. "So?" Back to Dancer as she coughed loudly.

"Sorry," she mumbled, waving a bit of smoke out of her face.

Max stumped out his cigarette on the top of the railing. "Eh, I don't really like these things anyway. Cigars, I like, but ain't got time for a cigar break during a work day." He looked at Hart. "A job with you, huh? Doin' what?"

"Helping people. You said you're a people person but aren't into the company culture of a mining corporation. Might be up your alley. Pays well. Starts immediately."

"How much immediately?"

"Right now."

"Doin' what, exactly?"

"Returning our friends to us."

Max transported his cigarette butt to the large ashtray by the door. "Friends?"

April clarified, "The folks you picked up in Reading. We have a feeling they'd rather be elsewhere just now."

"I'd rather that too, Miss, but—" He turned to Hart. "—that's a real short-term job there, Mr. H."

"Here." Hart produced a pen and a small sales receipt pad and started writing. "Starting now, you can work for me. Whatever you're making now, I'll double it. My company has several locations and lots of things that need doing, and after today you can have your choice of place and position. Right now, your first assignment is liberating our wayward friends from your former place of employment."

Hart turned around the pad on which he'd been scrawling an outline of a contract and held it out with the pen. "You sign, you agree. How about it, Max?"

Max accepted the offering, glanced over the just-legible scribbles, and added his name under Jonathan Hart's signature. "Alright, Mr. H."

Hart took the pad back and offered it to April next, prompting, "Witness."

"I…" April hedged, weighing whether to add her real name, put her alias, or refuse altogether. She mentally crossed her fingers that Hart would be a man of his word and signed _Jennifer Edwards_ , even though that probably wouldn't be a legally-binding contribution on her part.

Jonathan looked at the pad returned to him, then nodded and tore off the top sheet to give to Max, keeping the copy imprinted below for himself.

"They'll want their stuff back, too, right?" Max asked.

"Stuff?" April asked back.

"Phones and all that."

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll get you their stuff first, make sure the coast's clear in the hallway in there, and then get your people, okay?"

Hart grinned. "Sounds good to me, Max."

As they returned to the inside of the building from the balcony, April said, "We'll wait by the elevators."

"Sure thing." Max started toward the door to the suite, then turned to ask Hart, "Want me to stick around a little afterward? Might look weird to some of my coworkers if I up and vanish in the middle of the workday, so it'd give you and your buddies some time to clear out of here before they notice anything's gone wrong."

Hart used a hand to redirect Max's attention to Dancer on this one, and she decided, "Stick around as long as you feel is necessary and safe. If you know when Ms. Ravel is supposed to be in, you should probably leave before then."

Max nodded slowly. "You know Miss R then, huh? She sure gets grumpy, don't she?"

April nodded back and Max disappeared into the suite. As soon as he'd gone in, she set up her communicator. "Open Channel D."

 _"Waverly here. What is it, Miss Dancer?"_

"We have a man on the inside. All going well, we'll be out of here in a few minutes. All of us."

 _"Excellent."_

"Yes, sir. I was thinking—" She broke off to gape as Max strode out from the suite, plastic container full of electronic devices in hand.

 _"You were thinking, Miss Dancer?"_

"Uh, yes…" April smiled her thanks as Max dropped off the container with Jonathan and headed back into the offices. "…I was thinking that we should have an agent posted to the building, since our man on the inside will be defecting to work for Mr. Hart, and I'd like to make sure he makes it out."

 _"Why should I not have you handle that?"_

"I was also thinking that the Slates and Mr. Hart could head to our London office for debriefing, and then I could go with Napoleon and Illya to wrap things up with Ashley Slate."

 _"Very well, Miss Dancer. Describe your man. I'll have an agent dispatched to meet him."_

April finished up with Waverly and had just replaced her communicator when Max came back again, a small leather bag and zero people in tow. She furrowed her brow in a silent question as he offered the bag to her.

"You're a journalist, right? This is some money Miss R wanted to give to the English EPA for illegal purposes. Maybe you could investigate that."

"Sounds like a plan, Max."

Max grinned. "I'll go get your friends now."

* * *

This was turning out to be a pretty good day. A bad start, sure, what with having to abduct Francis and Ilia and those other three in Reading, but now it seemed like everything was coming up roses. The journalist lady would investigate Ravel's shady operations, the Hart guy was giving him a legitimate job, and all the folks from Reading would be released. They seemed decent folks, too, the lot of them.

At least, all of those things were the things that Max wanted to be true. And it wasn't as if his life was going great at this point, so why not take a chance? He smiled to himself, unlocked the door to the storage room, pushed it open—and shook his head at the gun being pointed at him.

"Now that's no way to thank someone."

Mark withheld a sigh and put the unloaded gun back in its holster.

Max waved and, when nobody moved, added, "Let's go. Couple friends of yours came to pick you up."

Francis tucked one arm behind his back. Scratched his chin with the opposite hand. "Uh… friends, Max?"

"Miss Edwards and Mr. Hart. C'mon, let's move out."

* * *

"Oh, Jen, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

April returned the hug. "We have to hurry—"

"And thanks to you, too, Mister," Cyn added, giving Hart a light punch in the arm. "Okay, let's go."

The group piled into the elevator once it arrived, and Napoleon promptly grabbed both of Illya's hands and squeezed them until the blue eyes locked onto his. "Any particular plans now, Jennifer?" Solo asked, not breaking his shared gaze with Kuryakin and intermittently tightening his grip in a steady rhythm.

"Mark takes Art, Cyn, and Mr. Hart to the London office," Dancer started, pressing the button for the ground floor.

Before she could continue, Solo urged, "What's the plan, Illya?"

"Mark takes Art, Cyn, and Mr. Hart to the London office," Illya parroted tightly.

"Jennifer?"

April looked a bit confused but pressed on with, "The rest of us catch up with Ashley to sort things out on his end."

"Illya."

"The rest of us catch up with Ashley to sort things out on his end," Illya echoed.

Napoleon smiled. "Good." If Illya was talking and holding his hands, he couldn't be attempting to stab himself with teeth or fingernails. "What are we doing for transportation, Jennifer?"

April turned to Hart. "Your next stop is walking distance. Mind if we borrow your car?"

In response, Jonathan Hart rested the container of electronics on one hip and used his free hand to take the key from his pocket, handing it over.

April held up the key.

"Stick shift, I presume," Napoleon posited. "Who's driving?"

"I can drive if you can try to get hold of Ashley on the phone."

"Illya?"

"We are borrowing a car," Kuryakin summarized flatly, "and Jennifer is driving and it is a stick shift, you presume, while you try to get hold of Ashley on the phone."

The elevator doors opened and Hart asked, "Is he okay?"

"He is okay," Kuryakin supplied, pulling away from one of the hands holding his but keeping a grip on the other to haul Solo out of the lift.

In the lobby, they redistributed the assorted items in the container, Mark distributed his uncle's phone number to Solo, Dancer put the leather bag of money in the now-empty vessel to be brought to the U.N.C.L.E.-London office, and the group split up. April led the way to the rental car, keeping up a pace just under a jog as Napoleon got a head start on getting a hold of Ashley Slate, calling the number twice and getting into the passenger seat of the rental car before getting a live person.

 _"Francis?"_

"Hi, Ashley, how are you? Hope I'm not bothering you in the middle of something important."

 _"No… what… I thought—ah, fuck it, are you alright? All of you? We saw in Reading…"_

"We're all in fair to pristine condition," Napoleon assured. "I have a feeling another little get-together might be in order. Where are you, old boy?"

 _"I—actually, Miss Crane and I were just on our way to save you all, but it seems you've taken care of that without our assistance."_

Illya pressed his feet into the floor as the car briefly jerked before resuming its previous rate of speed, and Napoleon and April demanded of the phone: "Crane?"

 _"Ah—Robin, I meant…"_

 _"I'm probably going to be dead before noon,"_ another voice asserted grimly, _"so what the hell? Elinor Crane. Former international spy and wildly successful impersonator of Englishwomen. What's shakin', Francis?"_

Stamping down the shock of the prodigal CEA having allegedly returned, Napoleon managed, "Hi… Ms. Crane—I, uh, think we should definitely have another get-together. Where can we meet? Where are you?"

 _"Round halfway between Swindon and Reading,"_ Ashley supplied.

"Okay, how about you meet us at your sister's place?"

 _"Er… yeah. And if you happen to be acquainted with anyone familiar with devious electro-mechanical devices and the deactivation thereof, I'm sure Ms. Crane'd be well appreciative."_

Napoleon looked to the back seat and Illya shrugged with a definitive air of false modesty, so the brunet declared, "En route as we speak, old man. Contact me if you run into difficulties before we see you."

 _"Right, and… you said everyone's… mostly alright?"_

"Ilia picked up a couple of scratches; he'll live. We'll see you soon." Solo terminated the connection and set up his communicator.

"Use Channel D," Dancer prompted.

"Open Channel D."

 _"Yes, Mr. Solo? Have you located Ashley Slate?"_

"We're going to meet him at Constance Slate's house, arriving around half past eleven if traffic stays light—and, Mr. Waverly…"

 _"Yes, yes?"_

"We might have found Ms. Crane."

* * *

 _11:30 a.m._

The front door opened as soon as they emerged from the car and Ashley ushered them in with, "Miss Crane's just scraping off her makeup—"

"Where's the device person?"

April grabbed Napoleon's forearm and gave it a vigorous shake— _holy what-the-heck, it's Ms. Crane!_ —as Illya stepped forward with, "At your service, madam."

"Good. This is the device." Crane indicated the choker she was wearing. "If Ravel thinks I'm turning against her, she says there is poison in the choker that will be injected into my neck."

Illya moved his face in for a slightly closer look, but still remained a solid two feet away as he mused mostly to himself, "Like a variant of a Waverly ring."

"Waverly ring?" Napoleon echoed and Illya glanced sharply at him.

"It is a hydrocarbon with a ring structure in which the hydrogen atoms are all contained within the loop of carbons, pointing inward as with the poison injectors."

Napoleon would have taken this at face value but Chemistry Student April looked skeptical, so Solo prompted, "That so?"

"Hypothetical, of course. Like benzene turned outside-in."

Dancer smirked. "And what idiot came up with that, blondie?"

"Joseph Waverly, a minimally important chemist from New Zealand."

Her lips quirked further upward. "Good old Joe, huh?"

Crane clapped her hands loudly and, at that call for attention, Kuryakin turned back to the choker, observing the flat metallic circles joined by a solid-looking chain of a lighter shade of metal. "The poison is in the gemstones, I would guess," he remarked in reference to the ruby-red squares at the center of the larger circular plates.

"That sounds reasonable," Crane said and Illya nodded, tilting his head and squinting at the red dots as if to further convince himself that, rather than gems, they were tiny vials containing liquid. She rolled her eyes. "You can come closer if you want. I tend not to give a fuck about personal space when my life is at stake."

The Russian glanced up to frown at her. "Perhaps you do not, but it is not my life that is at stake."

"Would it help if I threatened to poke out an eyeball?"

He appeared to consider this. "No. I could put it back in."

Crane scowled and motioned somewhat violent with one hand. "Get in here."

Illya sighed a bit but stepped nearer, offering, "Pardon my breathing down your neck, madam," as he made a closer visual inspection.

After a few moments of his fingers hovering just above the device, she snapped, "You can touch it if you need to. I won't bite."

"No, but you might poke my eye out."

"And I'd squish it like a grape so you couldn't put it back."

Kuryakin withdrew far enough to meet Crane's eyes and, when they grinned at each other, Solo griped, "How come my telling you to keep your eyes peeled is gross, but Ms. Crane threatening to pop your eyeball is funny?"

"I told you I don't make sense," Illya shrugged, then removed one of his gloves to delicately run a pinky beneath one of the larger circles and attempt to view the hidden side of the choker. "Have you applied much force in attempting to liberate yourself?"

"I tugged and twisted at it like all hell when it was put on and I was told what it was," Crane said, "but Ravel said that severing any of the connectors would also set it off."

Illya hummed. "Not sensitive to shock, then."

After almost a minute of quiet, Ashley inserted tentatively, "Do you think you can remove it?"

Illya spared him an impatient look. "Of course."

"Without killing Miss Crane, I mean."

"Can? Yes. Will? Maybe." Illya straightened up, frowned in thought, and decided, "I will need my toiletries bag, headphones, paper towels or a comparably thin fabric, and a toothpick. Francis, would you be so kind?"

Napoleon gave a jaunty salute and set off with, "As you wish."

"I'd hate to be rude, Ilia," Ashley said slowly, "but I'm failing to see how any of those things would be helpful in this situation."

"That is understandable," Illya returned, pulling his phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function to look behind each of the metal circles he pulled at with his pinky.

"There is some reason for your requesting them, I hope," Slate continued. "One to do with removing the necklace, I hope."

"And I would hope that you would hope so, Mr. Slate."

"Here we go," Solo announced his return, placing each item on the back of the couch near where Kuryakin and Crane were standing. "Bag, headphones, toothpick, paper towels, and Godspeed to you, MacGyvervich."

"Ah, thank you." Illya rummaged through the contents of the small bag, pulling out travel-sized containers of hand sanitizer, moisturizer, and toothpaste. "You may sustain minor burns," he informed Crane, "but, all going well, that is all."

April's eyelids fluttered in surprise. "Burns?"

The Russian hummed and used the toothpick to pry up a panel on one side of the headphones, shaking some things out of the compartment he opened.

"At this point," Crane said, "I'd let you try pretty much anything, but I'd still appreciate some narration of what it is you're doing."

Illya held up one of the somethings—they looked like resistors—and labeled it: "Detonators."

He held up the container of hand sanitizer: "Conductive gel."

Held up the toothpaste tube: "Secret formulation."

Ashley held up a hand, which abruptly flew to his forehead as if drawn by a magnet as he realized, "Jesus, he's gonna blast it."

"'Blast' seems rather enthusiastic," Illya objected.

"Alright, how's _'blow someone's head off'_ suit you?"

"I'm not going to blow your head off," Illya informed Crane. "I'm going to remove the necklace and have it fall away before the needles can deploy and make the injections. Three tiny, simultaneous explosions. Teensy."

At Ashley's sound of distress, Crane snapped at April, "Get him out of here. I don't want Teensy here being distracted by anything." As Dancer escorted Slate from the room, Crane asked, "Think any metal might get in my neck?"

"Small chance, small bits, not deep. As I said, burns are the most likely outcome." He held up the moisturizer. "That is what this is for. It is the only item that is accurately labeled."

"Burns from the explosion?"

"Explosions, plural. Small sparks for detonation, small explosions. Tiny."

"Teensy?" Crane suggested with a smirk.

"Teensy-tiny. I should hardly deign to call them 'explosions' at all, really."

"What would you call 'em, then?"

Illya's expression turned rueful. "Almost entirely devoid of satisfaction."

* * *

In the kitchen, April nodded for Ashley to take a seat at the counter. "She'll be fine. Blondie knows his way around a kaboom."

"Is he typically kaboom-ing around a lady's throat?"

"Want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Booze?"

"I take that as a 'no'. Coffee, thanks."

Dancer set to the coffee-brewing.

"I know that's rotten for the nerves, but I never cared for tea." He smiled weakly and started poking at the ceramic fruits set on the countertop, swapping their order: apple, banana, peach, grapes. "Don't spread it around. I'll be exiled."

"Mind if I ask how you got into this mess?" She finished setting up the coffee machine and poked around for a mug. "Working with Crane for Ravel?"

"Don't know all of Crane's story, except that she used to be some kind of a spy and didn't get under Ravel's thumb willingly. For me, I'm afraid it's rather a dull case of raging stupidity: started taking work giving legal advice to shady types." (Apple, banana, grapes, peach.) "Not trying to do anything illegal myself, and of course someone has to give the accused some amount of advisement regardless of their degree of shadiness, but it turned out most of them worked for Ravel." (Apple, grapes, banana, peach.)

"Assisting in bribery isn't generally all that legal," April pointed out.

"No. That's the first out-and-out illegal thing I've done, outside of running a red light." (Grapes, apple, banana, peach.) "Ravel said all my work for her employees would seem too much of a coincidence to be believed, and that she'd offer an anonymous tip to police regarding my underworld ties if I refused to handle it for her." (Grapes, banana, apple, peach.)

They looked to the door as Napoleon walked in. He waved at them with a few paper towels folded into strips as he headed to the sink. "These need to be wet. Wouldn't do to successfully explode the necklace off and then set Ms. Crane on fire. Ooh, is that coffee? Make enough for Ms. Crane, would you? She takes it black, as I recall."

"Ya got it, Francis," April returned with a thumbs-up.

Solo raised the now-soggy towels in a farewell gesture, heading back to the sitting room with, "Catch you on the flip side."

Illya half-turned at the returning footsteps and accepted the adequately soaked material, poking the towels between the choker and Crane's neck. Squeezing a putty-like material from the toothpaste tube and pressing it around three different spots on the necklace. Spreading some of the gel from the hand sanitizer bottle over the putty. Sticking a detonator in each of the three spots.

"You can cross your fingers if it would make you feel better," Illya offered.

"Thanks," Crane returned.

She didn't cross any fingers.

Napoleon crossed a few fingers and a couple of toes and his arms on her behalf.

Illya took note of that and muttered, "Rude," as he tapped around on his phone to open his self-made detonation app. Once he'd connected the sensors to the application, he inquired, "Would you like a countdown, madam, or do you prefer a surprise?"

"Fire at will, Teensy."

"Very well."

 _Fsssht!_

"Oh, well."

Napoleon, who hadn't managed to resist the instinct to squeeze his eyes shut upon hearing the thing being set off, forced himself to look.

First priority: Crane's head was intact and still connected to the rest of her body by a neck that seemed, at first impression, to be in satisfactory condition.

Second priority: the necklace lay in three pieces on the carpet at her feet.

Crane started feeling around her neck, peeling off the remaining bits of paper towel and touching at the skin as she demanded, "What, disappointed that I'm still in one piece?"

Kuryakin shook his head. "It deployed. Francis, check for puncture wounds."

Solo stepped in quickly, replacing Crane's hands with his own to conduct a visual and tactile review of the condition of her throat, while the Russian shut down the detonation app, deactivating the link between it and the detonators in the event that they hadn't been damaged beyond repair.

A moment later, as April stuck her head into the room to check on the outcome, Napoleon stepped back again, smiling, "No puncture wounds. Not a mark on her."

Illya glanced down to the red poison squirted near the necklace fragments. "Speaking of Mark, I hope his mother was not overly attached to this carpet."

* * *

 _U.N.C.L.E.-London_

 _Friday morning_

"And that is your final decision, Ms. Crane?"

"Yes. This is U.N.C.L.E. I used to work for, isn't it?"

Waverly nodded.

"If my automatic choice is to save my own neck instead of attempting to save kidnap victims, I don't think getting back in the old saddle would be the right move."

"Sometimes saving yourself is the right decision, if your preservation would allow you to help more people."

"Yes, but I don't believe self-preservation should be the default for a good agent. It should be _an_ option, not _the_ option." Crane considered the man sitting across from her at the large, round table. "Waverly. I was told your name is Waverly. I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise."

"Indeed. Your memory for faces seems to have fared better than your memory for names."

"My visual memories are spotty. Muscle memory's good. Names of people and places—I have hunches about what or where or who something or someone is, but nothing I could identify with confidence." She looked at the table. "This strikes a familiar note." She gripped the edge and nodded when she successfully spun it a few inches around.

"Do you remember why your memory is as it is?"

"No."

"How is your memory for things outside of U.N.C.L.E.?"

"I have family in Delaware and New Jersey. Estranged. Can't remember why, so I'm guessing it has to do with U.N.C.L.E."

"Would you like to reconnect with them?"

Crane shrugged. "What else can I do? I have no job, no money, no friends—"

"Really? What about Ashley Slate?"

"Coworker. Largely unwilling."

"He's willing to help you get on your feet in the U.S., until you can provide for yourself or until you've reaffirmed your family ties. Would that be acceptable for you?"

She frowned. "He volunteered?"

"At my suggestion. Ravel may still be in England, and she is certainly freshly annoyed. She tends to prioritize her grudges, so I'd like to give some time for you to slip down a few places before Mr. Slate resumes his residence in this country." Waverly wove his fingers together and rested his hands on the table. "Would you mind keeping company with Mr. Slate?"

"No spy stuff?"

"No spy stuff."

"Good." She smiled humorlessly. "Slate's not cut out for this business."

Waverly chuckled. "As you don't object, then, he will join you for a time. You will have the remainder of your memories of U.N.C.L.E. reduced and we shall help retrain you for employment in another field."

"Before my memory goes, can you tell me one thing?"

"I'll tell you as much as you like, Ms. Crane, but you'll not remember it for long, I'm afraid. You will fly out to New York today to have the detraining done. Have you in a place not far from your grandmother by Monday."

Crane smiled. "Damn, crazy old lady's still holding on, huh?" She shook her head. "That wasn't the thing. I was wondering… was I someone? Someone important? Don't lie if I wasn't, but I have a feeling I was… someone."

"You were indeed, Ms. Crane. Yes. And I have absolute confidence that, whatever your new field of work, you will be someone in that line, as well. Pity you won't know it, but we'll all be pulling for you."

"Pity I can't be sure about it, but those seem like rare and strong words from you."

"Words well-deserved by a rare and strong colleague, Ms. Crane."

* * *

"Canary Mining was the only company that's had any interest in reopening the colliery," Waverly informed the quartet seated around the segment of table opposite him.

That is, he informed Dancer, Kuryakin, and Solo. Slate knew at least part of what the chief was going to tell them, as Mark had been around when Arthur, Cynthia, and Jonathan Hart were being debriefed yesterday.

Waverly went on. "Our office has notified the relevant parties in the prospective sale of the McCoy Colliery of the true nature of Canary Mining and, between the hostile takeover of the Hart warehouse and conspiracy to bribe a government agency, it seems the mine shall remain shuttered indefinitely."

Napoleon smiled at Mark. "I bet that'll make Art and Cyn's day." He frowned. "When were the parties notified, Mr. Waverly?"

"Yesterday."

Solo glanced back to Slate. "Then where was Cynthia running off to this morning, if the stakeholders meeting was canceled?"

"Not canceled," Mark said. "Had its agenda rearranged. Since coal's a no-go, it's a roundtable discussion on revitalizing the local economy without it. Hart's actually stopping in there before checking out the aftermath of the Germany situation. Said he's been thinking of starting operations the UK and, even if McCoy's not a good locale for a warehouse, he might be up for opening a support office or expanding his investments portfolio some other way."

One side of April's mouth quirked up. "Think if T.H.R.U.S.H. tries this again with another mine, he'll invest in their local economies, too?" She straightened up and added to Waverly, "Not, uh… not that I'd be hoping for that, sir."

Waverly quickly killed his rising smile, raised his brows as he thought he heard Kuryakin mutter something, then turned back to Dancer. "Of course not, Miss Dancer. Perhaps coming up with such economic alternatives can be a mission supported by your siblings, Mr. Slate."

This being just the opening he needed, Mark nodded. "Yes, sir. Regarding Arthur and Cynthia, sir, they… well, Mr. Waverly, I hope they won't be getting in much trouble for it."

"Trouble, Mr. Slate, for aiding in the prevention of T.H.R.U.S.H. acquiring a new location to store missiles? I should think not. If, however, this should become a habit of theirs—"

"It won't." At Waverly's elevated eyebrows, Mark caught himself and cleared his throat. "It won't, sir. I'll make sure they understand your position on the matter."

"Very good." Waverly stood and moved to peer out the window over the London streets. "Overall, I'd say you've had a very productive holiday. Exemplary work overall, yes. But—" He turned around. "—Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya sat to attention. "Sir."

"I can't argue with the result, but next time you will advise us when you intend to smuggle explosives onto a commercial flight."

"Even the little ones, sir?"

"Regardless of size, shape, color, origin, value, and musical preference, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya inclined his head—"Yes, sir."—and Napoleon quickly scrubbed away a smile at the despondent slouch.

"Dismissed. Oh—and enjoy the rest of your holiday."

Once the doors had shut behind them, Mark clicked his tongue. "Ah, almost forgot." He pulled a business card from his pocket and flicked it over to April. "Hart said if you're ever in the fancy-pants part of Los Angeles—I mean, his neck of the woods—you should look him up. Talk over old times."

Dancer squinted mistrustfully at the card, decided that it was seldom a good idea to burn a mostly harmless bridge, and stuffed the thing into her back pocket.

* * *

 _Elsewhere in London_

"Well, Miss Ravel."

"Well, Monsieur Marton."

"Losing to the proverbial meddling kids, and then losing the meddling kids before you could find out who they were and what they wanted? Less than an auspicious start as part of T.H.R.U.S.H., I must say."

"And I'm afraid I must agree. But onward and upward." She poured herself a whiskey from Marton's office bar, thought a moment, and poured one for him also. Offering Marton one of the glasses, she began, "There's a place I've had my eye on in the Pyrenees…"

* * *

 _Ten years ago_

"Well, young man," she smiled, "have a seat."

"Well, severely overpaid psychotherapist," he returned, "don't mind if I do."

"Let's not leap to judgement," she said from her chair, the one which he knew for a fact cost enough to cover over half a semester's tuition at several universities. "This is our first session. How do you know how much I'm worth?"

He shrugged.

"Do you know why you're here today?"

"Offhand, I'd say it has something to do with my mother insisting I get in the car and then proceeding to take me here."

She clasped her hands on her desk.

He crossed his legs one knee over the other and let her patiently look at him for a few more moments before reattempting the answer. "I'm here because my parents are thinking I'll follow my dearly departed sister into the cold embrace of death." He held up a finger. "Correction: that I'll prematurely follow, etcetera, etcetera."

"And is that something they should be concerned about?"

"If there were any chance of that being the case, yes, it should."

"And what are the chances of that, Napoleon?"

"Never say never, I suppose, but the chances are just about nil, I'd say."

"Why do you think they're worried, then?"

"Fifty percent of their children have prematurely etcetera'd. I guess they don't like the odds."

"Do you like the odds?"

He pouted in thought. "How do you mean?"

"Are you worried that, even though the chances are nil right now, your mindset on that might… change?"

He sighed, turned to show her his profile, held his forehead in one hand, and pulled his angstiest Angsty Teen expression to intone, "I am now… thanks a lot for that."

She tilted her head and re-clasped her hands.

He spread himself out a bit more comfortably in the armchair and basked in the patient gaze upon him. After a pause to wonder how long it would take to wear her down, he said, "I go to school, I do my homework, my extracurriculars… I have friends, I go on dates… I clean my room, I feed my hamsters—overall, I seem to be doing fine." He grinned. "And Rogers and Hamsterstein are just peachy. I'll tell them you asked after 'em. They'll get a kick out of that, or at least that's the emotion I'll project onto the little fuzzballs."

"Just because someone's high-functioning doesn't mean there isn't something wrong, Napoleon."

He frowned. "High-functioning? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that, even if you're getting out of bed in the morning and going through the motions, you can still be depressed."

"Wha—?" Napoleon shook his head rapidly, tossing off the unexaggerated shock to regain himself, which in this situation he felt merited his most frigid smile and a healthy dose of sarcasm. "I can still be depressed? Why, thank you! When the hell did _that_ prospect enter the picture, pray tell?"

She pulled over the notebook lying open on her desk. As she put pencil to paper, she said in a deliberately, infuriatingly calm tone, "I'd appreciate if you wouldn't raise your voice to me."

"Swell. I'd appreciate if you wouldn't decide I'm depressed based on five minutes with me, and whatever my parents said in the couple of minutes it presumably took to make this appointment." He drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. "I suppose you're documenting my anger issues over there, hm?"

She stopped writing. "You have anger issues?"

"If you can diagnose depression in mere minutes based on fuck-all information, one can only assume that you can diagnose deep-seated rage based on three seconds of a slightly raised voice." He smiled politely. "I don't think this is going to work out, do you?"

Outside, he took out his phone, texting that he was ready to be picked up.

 _Mom: That was fast for a 45-min appt…?_

 _Napoleon: Fast and last. Never again, mother mine :)_

* * *

 _Late March_

Well, he'd been right about one thing: never say never. It had taken a few years but he did, in fact, end up seeing a mental health professional again. Two of them. One, he saw once for a psych evaluation upon joining U.N.C.L.E. The second, he'd be seeing now. In a few minutes—

"Illya," a stocky man emerging from one of the inner offices called over with a smile and a Ghanaian accent. "Come on in."

—or right now.

Napoleon got up as Illya did and followed him, smiling reassuringly when the blond head briefly turned around as if checking that he was there, joining him on the short trip from the waiting area to Dr. Boateng's office.

"Go on in," Boateng urged the Russian, "and sit where you like." He turned to the brunet. "You must be Napoleon. I am Dr. Boateng. I don't believe you've had an appointment with us before."

"No," Solo confirmed, shaking the proffered hand. "I had my psych eval at the LA office and haven't needed any follow-ups on anything."

"Congratulations," Illya muttered, and Boateng said to the American, "Ah, I see. I believe you came to visit Illya during his stay with us in January."

The doctor shut the door and gestured for Napoleon to take a seat. "I did not know at that time that you were in a relationship with Illya." The doctor took his own seat and drew a notepad and a pencil from his desk. "He privileged that information to me after his stay with us ended."

"I assumed you would not mind if I told," Illya said to Napoleon. "I apologize if that was presumptuous of me."

"Hey, you know me," Solo grinned. "I wouldn't mind it being shouted from the rooftops."

"But I did not shout it from rooftops. I mumbled it in a psychiatrist's office."

"I don't mind that either."

"That is good." Illya crossed his arms at that point and slouched down in his chair, addressing his shoes as he said, "If you please, Dr. Boateng."

Napoleon looked to the psychiatrist.

"Illya asked me to share his diagnoses with you," Boateng explained.

"Diagnoses, plural?" Solo asked.

"Yes," Illya informed his toes. "In the event that it's escaped your notice, Napoleon, I am quite the disaster."

Boateng smiled. "And why are you here, Illya?"

"To make some improvement in that state of affairs."

"And you have been doing that." Kuryakin shrugged one shoulder and didn't argue the point, so Boateng returned to Solo. "I understand Illya has already told you about his depression. You are assisting him in staying on track with his medication."

Napoleon nodded. He looked to Illya. "Has it been helping much?"

Illya shrugged the other shoulder. "Perhaps. It, you, April, Mark, and Dr. Boateng all seem to have been helping, so I cannot tell which is the most helpful. It is a poorly designed experiment, but the overall effect has been promising thus far."

The blue eyes flicked over to the psychiatrist, and Boateng took his cue: "Illya has also had some struggles with anxiety, but its effects have not been as intrusive on a daily basis as those of depression. We are sticking with talk therapy for that, rather than considering medication at this point."

Napoleon shielded his mouth with one hand, poked at the Russian's shoulder with the other to get his attention, and mouthed, _"Elevators?"_

Illya informed the Ghanaian, "There is something that Napoleon believes I should discuss with you, vis-à-vis anxiety. Next session, yes?" At Boateng's nod, Illya resumed his staring contest with the toes of his shoes.

"The last diagnosis to discuss today," Boateng went on, "is the most tentative. I am not a specialist in the relevant field and, you see…"

"I am not particularly cooperative," Kuryakin supplied, "so I refuse to see a specialist."

"Why don't you want to see a specialist?" Solo prompted.

"I am reasonably comfortable with Dr. Boateng. I am making improvements. I do not believe seeing a specialist will further advance those improvements."

"Okay. And what sort of specialist is it that you refuse to see?"

Boateng gave the blond several moments to answer but, when no response seemed forthcoming, provided it himself. "A specialist in autism spectrum disorders. Based on what Illya has told me and what I have observed—including some savant-like qualities regarding memory and calculation—that seems to me a very likely diagnosis, and a likely contributor to his anxiety and depression. Additionally, Illya was diagnosed with autism as a young child, but his parents disagreed with the diagnosis and took him elsewhere, to be treated for other disorders."

Illya grunted and tucked his chin lower to mutter, "They'd believe me a psychopath sooner than this."

Taking note of the increasingly unfriendly body language, Napoleon put a hand on the arm of Illya's chair rather than his person. "That doesn't mean this is worse than being a psychopath."

"So I've heard." His chin lifted the smallest amount, enough to allow eye contact with the American and offer a dry smirk along with, "I've been seeing a psychiatrist about these things, you know." The smirk faded. "What now, then?"

Solo glanced between doctor and client, not sure whether he or Boateng was the intended addressee of that question. When Boateng failed to jump in, he asked, "'What now, then' what, chou?"

"That about covers the breadth of what Dr. Boateng and I are addressing in our sessions. So. Questions, comments, concerns, tendering of resignations?"

Figuring that the resignation-tendering remark was a flippant ask regarding whether they were breaking up, and figuring that he could figuratively throttle Illya later for thinking this matter would prompt Napoleon to run for the hills, Solo took a moment to decide how to phrase his response.

"In England," he started carefully, "you touched on something that does… worry me a bit. I'd like to bring it up now, since maybe Dr. Boateng could help facilitate the discussion."

At the hesitation, Illya pointed out, "I cannot give my approval for your bringing it up, if I do not know what it is."

"Okay. Well. I'm a little concerned about how our relationship might change as we spend more time apart," Napoleon admitted. He added to the Ghanaian, "Illya's mentioned that his relationship with his parents might have been affected by not spending much time with them so—"

"No."

Solo and Boateng turned to Kuryakin.

"No."

"Illya," the psychiatrist said, "if this is something that concerns Napoleon—"

"No."

"Okay. Why don't you wait in your office?"

"No."

"I will talk with Napoleon for a little bit, and he will be with you shortly. Okay?"

"No," the blond said, then shook his head and blinked a few times. "Yes, I—yes. Yes, yes, yes." He stood and stiffly exited the room, leaving the American to look with a silent question to the doctor.

"Have you seen this behavior from Illya before?" Boateng asked once the door had been shut again.

"Something similar," Napoleon said slowly. "He'll just up and shut himself in his room all of a sudden. I try to talk to him and get him to tell me what's wrong, but I always end up letting him be until he returns on his own."

"It is a manifestation of anxiety. Letting him be is usually fine. He prefers to calm himself by himself."

Napoleon nodded. "So he's… upset by what I said?"

"That seems likely."

"I guess that's reassuring in a way—that he'd care if we started drifting apart—but I can't imagine his not talking about it will help much."

"It will not but, as you pointed out, trying to talk about it now is not… on the table. He might bring it up with you later, and I will try to bring it up with him at our next session to see how that goes."

Napoleon nodded again. "Meanwhile, could I have your opinion on it? On—heck, I think I need your opinion on a lot of things now."

Boateng glanced to the clock on his computer screen. "I am all yours for the next thirty minutes. If you need more time, we can schedule an appointment for just you and me, or see if Illya would be willing to share another session."

"Is it—I'm really going to sound like an ignoramus here, but I might as well get the stupid question out of the way so I don't end up dwelling on it somewhere down the line. Is it okay for him to be dating me? I mean, we're doing fine by me, but if it's doing harm to him…."

"Because of the tentative diagnosis of autism," Boateng guessed and Solo nodded, so he continued. "As is implied by the term 'autism spectrum', there is quite a wide range of how deeply affected people can be, and in what ways. Illya is very high-functioning and—does that term disturb you?"

Napoleon almost winced again as he realized that his cringing at the word _high-functioning_ had not gone unnoticed. "I guess it's, uh, because it makes it sound like something's… wrong with him."

"I would hesitate to agree with the characterization of something being wrong. Different, yes. Neurologically atypical, yes. Perhaps needing to be addressed, yes. Would benefit from a good support system, yes."

"I think everyone could benefit from a good support system."

"True, indeed. Illya, perhaps a bit more at the moment, which brings us to something that I would like to discuss. Are you familiar with the concept of codependency, Napoleon?"

Napoleon propped one ankle on the opposite knee. "Vaguely."

"You asked if it is okay to be in a relationship with Illya, and this is the arena in which I would advise some caution. You have noticed, I'm sure, that Illya does not easily develop bonds with people. Deep bonds, especially."

Nod.

"When someone with social difficulties does develop a bond, in some cases it may happen that those one or two relationships become, in a sense, all-consuming. It is not the same as obsession-stalking, but the people involved can come to believe that the person with the difficulties needs caretaking more than is actually necessary. Perhaps their relationships with other people may suffer."

Napoleon frowned. "Well, I'm terrible. I was just thinking a while ago that he sort of needs me."

"It does not make you terrible, Napoleon. And, to an extent, I would say he does need you. Not for everything, of course, or in every way. As a person with mental health issues in early adulthood, he does need support and he trusts you to help in that. Where we must be cautious is not being overzealous in providing that support. It will not help him if both you and he feel that he is less capable of looking after himself than he actually is."

"How do we do… not that?"

"There is no one-size-fits-all solution. One thing you may watch for, however, is to avoid any backsliding. If you notice that you are starting to do more for him than usual without cause, that might be a reason for concern."

Napoleon nodded solemnly.

"On that note, I will add that I am confident in your being a good partner for Illya. You seem to have good instincts where he is concerned. Illya has spent most of his life accommodating himself to other people's expectations of social behaviors. You, on the other hand, have made an effort to meet him where he is."

Napoleon offered his best smile to contrast with his nerves. "And that's okay, he asked hopefully."

"That is very okay," Boateng returned the grin. "It is, of course, important that he be able to operate in the broader society—and, if nothing else, his prior experiences with therapy were quite effective in teaching him how he is expected to behave, improving his communication skills, so on, so forth.

"At the same time, however, there is only so much he can do, and it is a conscious effort on his part to put into effect what he has learned. We will continue to work on what Illya finds disruptive to his overall success, and I will occasionally suggest again that he see a specialist if I think it would benefit him," Boateng concluded, "but this might be, so to speak, as good as it gets."

"I think it's pretty good." Napoleon scratched the back of his neck. "I think I'll go see how he's doing now."

"Of course." Boateng flipped his notebook shut, placing it on the table with his pencil as he stood to extend a hand to Solo. "I am glad to meet you, Napoleon."

"Same here, Doctor."

Napoleon headed to his (and April and Mark and Illya's) office, leaned in the doorway once the door had slid itself open, and waited the three seconds it took for Illya to look up from the papers he was rifling through on his desk. "Ready to talk about it now?"

"No. That is a personal matter." He gathered the papers and tapped them on the surface to form an even pile, which he tucked into one of the filing drawers in the bottom of the desk. "We are at the office."

Napoleon glanced to the clock. "Under twenty minutes before we're supposed to knock off. Considering how much we got done over spring break, I don't think anyone'd mind if we slipped out a little early."

Illya stood, grabbed his jacket from the back of his freshly vacated chair, and strode out. Napoleon snagged his own coat and followed, repeating cheerfully as soon as they'd cleared out of Del Floria's and were starting down the sidewalk: "So, ready to talk about it now?"

"There is nothing to talk about. You have no cause for concern."

"Don't I?"

"No. You should realize that if you know how I— _think_ about you."

Solo had a hunch that the word _feel_ had been narrowly avoided as he pressed, "And how do you 'think' about me?"

Kuryakin furrowed his brow, holding a steely gaze with the pavement for several moments as he worked out the trajectory of this conversation in his head. Once he'd nodded to himself a couple of times, Solo put a hand to his wrist and Illya stepped to walk closer to the American, tacitly approving the request for hand-holding.

As soon as their fingers were intertwined, Illya said slowly, "You are very important to me, Napoleon." He shook his head a bit and corrected, "The most important. Not that you should let it go to your head." Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, the Russian demanded, "Say it again. The thing you are worried I will forget."

Napoleon hesitated, taking a second to process the abrupt command before saying, "I love you."

The offering was barely out of his mouth when Illya returned curtly, "And the same to you." A second later, when Napoleon stopped walking and he didn't, he stated at the resulting arm-tugging, "Ow."

"You mean that?"

"I assure you it was an 'ow' of the utmost sincerity."

"I meant, did you mean that you love me? You're not saying it to make me feel better?"

"Yes—that is… I'm not sure that I'm _in_ —"

As Illya waved in circles with his free hand, Napoleon guessed, "In love?"

"—but I do—"

More waving and Solo supplied, "Love."

"—you. Or, at least, I believe that is most likely the case, and I will update you on the situation as necessary."

"Yes. Yes, please keep me posted on that."

"I will."

 **The End**

* * *

 **A/N** : Well, that was the thing that was. Hopefully it was somewhat amusing or, at minimum, not terribly offensive, :)

I'm starting to develop the plot for another story (yay?), but it'll be a while before that shows up around here: the "writing" part of "writing the story" hasn't started yet, and I'll probably wait until it's (almost) done before I start posting it.

Thanks a bunch for reading through!


End file.
